


Where the Fighting is Hardest, There Will I Be - Part One

by putthatbottledowngrantaire



Series: Where the Fighting is Hardest, There Will I Be [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Blood, Death, French Resistance, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, Soldiers, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence, british!Grantaire, injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 32,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/putthatbottledowngrantaire/pseuds/putthatbottledowngrantaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World War Two AU<br/>Grantaire signs up for the war with no illusions as to what is facing him.  The world has been through war before and he knows how it goes.  Becoming a soldier is something he does by choice before that free will is taken from him by the conscription.</p><p>So he goes.  And he trains.  And he fights.</p><p>And he meets people that change his life as much as the war raging around him does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer here that I am in no way a World War Two historian, nor am I a soldier, so please forgive any huge oversights or anachronisms. I have been trying my hardest to research the crap out of this - but that can only get you so far!
> 
> You may notice that I have changed it to Part One of a series - I hope this doesn't anger anyone but I decided that that would be the best way to handle this.

Grantaire stumbles along the streets of London, something that he isn’t unused to doing.  Part of him is ashamed at the number of times he has made this same trek, though a significantly larger part isn’t bothered.  That same part of him lost count of how many fingers of whiskey he had drunk hours ago.  The bar was practically empty so there was no-one there to look down on him and take in the amount he was drinking.

Of course, once all the lights went out no-one was really around; all scurrying back to their hiding holes like mice.  Even most of the regulars had stopped hanging around the pub, preferring to spend time with their families in the safety of their own homes; save Grantaire and about three other men - all invalided home and not willing to talk to anyone.

The three veterans never sit together or with Grantaire.  When he enters at the start of the evening, Grantaire will sometimes acknowledge them with a tip of his head or a raising of his glass.  Occasionally he will get a gesture in return; but never words.  What words could they share regardless?  These men had seen things; things that Grantaire knew they wouldn’t want to talk about and he respects that privacy – he wouldn’t know what to say in return.

Grantaire doesn’t know these mens’ stories but he is almost sure they are all the same – a bullet, or a bomb, perhaps even just their minds giving out; it’s always the same result.

The four men merely sit with a beer in front of them, focusing their full attention on the glass in their hand and Grantaire ignores the way that one of them sloshes his beer every time he raises it to his lips, his hand shaking too much to hold it steady; and the way one of them coughs like they are going to spit up one of their lungs.

 

He is beyond caring about it all.  He cared for so long and now it just hurts.  It hurts to see these men – withered and old beyond their years.  Grantaire tells himself that he doesn’t care, chants it to himself like a Hail Mary, like he is reciting the Lord’s Prayer.  He doesn’t care and it doesn’t hurt.

Nothing would matter soon enough anyway.  His stays in prison cells for bar brawls and drunkenness; that past, the future, if there was one beyond this shithole the world had become – none of it meant anything.   He had enlisted and that meant the end of everything.

No more Grantaire, no more name – just a number on a file in a cabinet in the War Office.

 

He was drunk when he did that too, not that any of the recruiting officers minded.  This war had dragged on too long already, they needed numbers, conscription could only get them so far, and the great machine has to continue rolling ever on - the war machine that was enslaving all of Europe for a second time and showed no signs of abating in the near, or distant, future.  Even Australia had come under attack this time – all the way on the other side of the world and the Commonwealth was still threatened.

One morning he simply made his way to recruiting office near his flat, after drinking near half a bottle of something he had lying around, and signed up.  May as well do it himself before his number came up he figured.  He didn’t think that his drinking habit could count as a mental disorder and really he didn’t attend classes enough at university to count as a student so an exemption was pretty unlikely. Then at least something in this wartime world could be left up to him and be his own choice – he couldn’t even choose how much to eat these days, the Government did that for him. Rationing is bollocks. 

He tells himself every day that that was the reason he signed up at least.  He tells himself that it isn’t guilt that compelled him to fill in his details and sign his name.

 

 _God, why did I miss the 20s?_ , Grantaire thinks to himself.  The Roaring 20s.  No more war, a world reborn.  His natural cynicism would have told him that these good times were only fleeting and so he would have enjoyed them as much as he could while they lasted.  He would have drank and danced and laughed.  He was too young back then to have any understanding on what he was missing out on.  Grantaire could have spent his days sleeping and his nights in extravagance.

Looking back on it now, people should have realised sooner what was coming.  All Grantaire has known is war and Depression – missing the 1920s meant growing up in the 1930s; and that wasn’t really a fair trade.

_Fucking Hitler and his fucking Nazis._

Looking up at the sky he can see too many stars.  Without the light pollution from the city, there are an unnatural number of stars in the sky.  Continuing to scan, Grantaire can see the black holes created by the blimps.

 _It’s an illusion_ , he thinks, _that Jerry can’t get us because of our massive killer balloons_.

The piles of rubble that littered London should have been testament to the ineffectuality of the Air Force against the Luftwaffe.  Thousands of buildings lost to the bombs that had been dropped on the city for eight months with hardly a breath.  People died and history was lost in the ensuing mess of bricks and concrete – but everyone was told to be brave; be brave and believe that we can ward off the German dogs.

At least the sound of the spitfires in the night was comforting to some.

 

Suddenly, Grantaire is on the ground.  He had been staring up for too long and had tripped on the curb.  He hates black outs.  Picking himself up and dusting off his pant legs, he winces at the grazes on his hands and can faintly see little droplets of blood pooling where stones have pierced the pale white skin.  He is fascinated for a moment by the thought of the blood – watching it seep through his skin.   His mind turns to the blood flowing across the world and the waste of life, as it does so often.

It makes him feel sick to the stomach to think about all the men and boys slain by the Axis, all the widows and orphans, the children sent out of the city, the soldiers who were coming back from the war shaking and broken and empty shells of the virile men Britain sent away just like the three men at the pub every night.

Because of this Grantaire felt sick most of the time.  Ironically, he drank these days to feel less sick as hangover at least was better than feeling anything else.  The humour of this isn’t lost on him and he lets out a huff of a laugh. 

Wiping his hands on his chest, he stumbles on, red smears across the front of his off-white shirt.

_Should get used to being soaked in my own blood._

Two doors down from his flat the sirens begin to whine.  Grantaire resists the urge to bang his head against the wall in frustration, thinking the better of it – his headache was already going to be impressive in the morning without adding concussion to the list of causes.

They screamed on as he fumbles in his pocket for the door key.   Raids were few and far between since the end of the Blitz.  Grantaire chuckled at the thought.

‘Good Lord, it was almost optimistic!’ he said out loud, not a soul around to hear nor able to hear over the wailing sirens.  _Any air raids is too many air raids; but the Germans have taught us to be thankful for only a few_ , he muses, opening the door and making a beeline through the corridor towards his own flat, before going through the struggle to dig the other key out of his pocket.  He applauds himself for his speed at finding it and unlocking this second door, then heads for the bedroom and his bed.

Not even Hitler is going to keep him from sleep tonight and so he falls asleep, fully clothed and already much too sober, to the sounds of bombs exploding in the distance.

He is already out before the all-clear rang out across the battered and bruised London.


	2. Chapter 2

The letter arrives a few days later. When R checks his mail the offending envelope is waiting for him, obvious as to its contents. It’s not an envelope that you can mistake when the whole of the country has grown so accustomed to it. It’s so short it can hardly be called a letter – it’s more of a note. It simply informs Grantaire of his impending deployment. He must be present at training in two weeks time and will be told further information on its completion. He thinks of how many others have received this same note from the War Office today, and yesterday, and how many will get it tomorrow – a short impersonal note telling them it’s their time to die for King and country.

Grantaire needs a drink.

 

***

 

Training takes place in Scotland, in the Highlands. Grantaire tries to commit as much as he can to memory each day and recreates it during dinner each night with the paper and pencil he is supplied with. He regrets not bringing some colours from home to work with here. The gray doesn’t do justice to the landscape he finds himself in. It’s virgin land, green and brown, and it’s alive all around him from the blades of grass to the birds that fly through the trees and are beginning to nest there. But it also has a dangerous edge to it. Grantaire can feel it; a kind of treacherous beauty where the land can swallow you up and never allow you to be found. Though the constant fire of rifles and machine guns certainly doesn’t help – perhaps the land itself wants to reject this violence that man is forcing upon it.

 

The Army already know he is fit – his medical already told them as much when he enlisted – but the officers are surprised at just how fit he is; when he arrived he was noted as a bit too slender to be a good soldier.

They also quickly learned that he was undisciplined, careless and much too dependent on alcohol for anyone’s liking so he became the brunt all the anger and frustration of his superiors. He was made to run more, jump higher and be hit more than any other of the hundred trainees. And it frustrated them more that he just took it. He never vocally nor physically fought back; after all it was nothing that Grantaire hadn’t experienced before.  It simply added to the Army experience for him.  

_Everything I imagined it would be._

 

His dance and gymnastic training comes in handy in ways that Grantaire could never have imagined however and he is soon outperforming all the others in his group. Not to mention he shines mentally over everyone – perhaps his ability to see worst case scenarios helps in his understanding of war and battle. He is a crack shot and damn good in a fist fight (no-one need know about his previous practise and expertise in this area, of course).

 

Grantaire befriends all of those at the training camp, his humour and ability to make everyone laugh draws the scared and nervous boys and men like moths to a flame - everyone of them is more than willing to laugh at Grantaire's wit, wanting something to eliviate the stress and tension that builds up every day.  Grantaire too is content to make each of their lives that little bit happier as every day he considers just how unhappy they all soon will be.

There isn’t anything to drink, though Grantaire eventually convinces one of the more sympathetic officers to procure a bottle for him.  He shares it amongst the other privates, whether or not he actually believes that they are old enough to have enlisted.  He swears that there are at least three seventeen year old amogst their number. The alcohol burns him like it always does as it slides down his throat and warms his belly, and he savours every drop of it.

As the bottle empties he begins to rue the day he signed up to this doomed war more than ever before.

 

One of the privates becomes closer to Grantaire than the rest.  Bahorel is a soldier’s soldier. He has the broad chest and is well over six feet tall. He is the man that the recruitment posters are talking to. Initially the two of them bond over their unusual names.

‘My dear old mother just had a sense of humour I suppose’, Bahorel laughs one day as he and Grantaire are smoking together after physical training, ‘Figured it would be too merciful to give me some conventional name!’

 

Grantaire shares his nickname of R and explains his family’s French origins – his parents and two surviving grandparents immigrated to England after the end of the Great War – and the little joke that his nickname is, after all who can resist a good pun? ‘My parents came here with me thinking that this was all over. I was a couple of years old when we left, just after the flu buggered off. My father fought in the first one of these. You know, the war to end all wars’ Grantaire scoffs

‘Yet here we are, mate’, Bahorel replies, dropping his cigarette on the ground and crunching it under his foot with a sigh.  The disgust that not only was there a first war, but now a second, not lost on him.

‘Yet here we are...’

 

***

 

They are trained in the art of killing for five weeks before they receive their orders. After the last day of exercises, the tension is palpable and Grantaire can do little this time to ease the melancholy. The realisation is beginning to hit some as to their future, especially the younger men; ones being forced to grow too quickly under the weight of guns and packs.

 _They aren't realising their future_ , R thinks, _they are realising that the future doesn't exist_.

 

Others become slightly giddy – some of the more cocky ones who, despite the precedent set by the First World War, see their deployment as an adventure. R can’t stand to tell them what he really thinks and what is coming for them despite his occassional urge to throttle them and talk sense into their naive and innocent heads. He has regaled them with his cynicism before now and allows them to cope in whatever way suits them. He doesn’t do the same with Bahorel though. Bahorel has no such illusions or mechanisms to deal with his own destruction.

 

‘We’re fucked’ is all Grantaire has for his friend, unable to make eye contact as he kicks at a stone on the ground.

‘I know’, Bahorel says, ‘but hell, may as well take Jerry down with us.  Make ‘em bleed while we have the chance.’

 

When Grantaire looks up, Bahorel is looking him in the eyes with a fire that even the cynic thinks the Germans may have a hard time dousing, finding himself wishing he felt the same.


	3. Chapter 3

The group are sent to the Western Front. Leaving Scotland, they are taken by transport to Dover and loaded onto a vessel to cross over to Belgium, switching between periods of complete silence and constant nervous chatter. Grantaire and Bahorel share a cigarette from their position on the deck during the crossing and watch as Europe coming into view. They can see the fortifications built by the Germans along parts of the French coastline, yet another reminder of just how much of nature the war can touch. _The coastline will never be the same again_ , Grantaire thinks before turning to his comrade and continuing out loud, ‘The world will never be the same again.’

 

When the fresh faces disembark in Belgium they are met by the weary faces of the commanders of the forces there. Not the top ones of course, they are too important to meet privates on the beach, but a two Lance Corporals and a Corporal are there for their arrival. They are not the only ones arriving today – boats line the shoreline and hundreds of men are unloaded like cattle. Grantaire can only liken it to herding cows to the slaughter.

Bahorel takes note of the deeper slump in his shoulders and the blatant distain on his face and camps a hand over his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Grantaire smiles in return – what else is there to do after all? He swings his gun further up on his shoulder and follows the group from behind, taking in the landing and trying to memorise as much as he can to sketch it later.

 

They are the relief crew, come in so the men who have already been there for months can breathe again. They are soon to become one of the broken waiting for the next group on the beach. The closer they get to the lines the slower they have to move and the louder the fighting gets. Grantaire notes that the closer they get to the lines, the wearier the soldiers get also.

 

The first area they walk through is naturally the triage and field hospital – R can’t help but snort derisively. _First impressions are everything_. Men, shaking, bandaged and bloody lie on the ground, only the more gravely wounded afforded beds. Some sit in the dirt smoking and the occasional soldier begins violently hacking up whatever has corrupted his lungs. Grantaire is reminded of the stories he had heard in Scotland and the training he had received both there and before then, at home in London. There were more evil things in the air this war than mustard gas and smoke. He is infinitely thankful that he still has his gas mask attached to his pack and can only hope that he gets it out fast enough if need be. Signs of shelling are also more obvious the closer they get to the front line and there are flurries of movement to and from the fighting. At one time, a man is carried past them screaming on a stretcher and everyone can see the blood flowing under the sheets where his legs should be.

_This is how the world burns._

 

***

 

All the men quickly fell into the patterns of the Western Front. The short bursts of sleep when they could (something Grantaire wasn’t unaccustomed to), the long hours in the trenches along their stretch of land, the biweekly rotations forward and back again to provide relief and be relieved of their front line duties. The food was awful, the smell was awful and the damp was awful.

After three months on the front the shells constantly dropping become merely more than a nuisance. There is no aim and no purpose behind each one of them. They are there almost only to serve as a reminder of the enemy camping a couple of hundred metres away. Luck is the only thing that lets a bomb hit someone or something – most of the targets were reduced to nothing long before Grantaire and his company arrived.

 

He remembered some poetry he had read years ago about the Great War by one of the murdered poets. ‘What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle can patter out their hasty orisons.’ Fifteen of the men he had left Scotland with had died like this, just another number dead on the battlefield, slain like an animal.

 

Without wanting to R’s mind turns to their first venture into the central field between the camps. They had been in the trenches for two days before going over. He remembered firing at nothing and no-one across the haze of the battlefield, sickeningly hoping that a bullet would hit Jerry before one of them got him. He was spared. The man next to him was not. Three bullets in quick succession pierced him, spattering blood on Grantaire’s left cheek.

He hadn’t noticed at first until he heard the man screaming – screaming for his mother and for God and the red stained his uniform. Grantaire had slung his gun over his shoulder and yelled for Bahorel, who was metres in front of him and could not hear over the noise. R had put his hands under the dying mans arms and tried to drag him back to the Allied lines, telling him it was going to be okay, that he was going to be okay, to hold on and Grantaire tried his hardest to believe the words coming from his lips and rolling off his tongue.

He knew though that it was over as soon as the man went quiet.

The fight was gone from him with the blood and the life and he was even heavier in Grantaire’s arms. They were still too far away from the lines. Grantaire found himself unable to do anything but sit in the mud and the filth and cry, holding the corpse to his chest. R didn’t even know his name, had never asked his name; he didn’t know if the man had family, parents, a wife, children – he knew nothing about him and he couldn’t find any of it out. It was all gone. He kissed the bloody forehead of the soldier and continued to hold him until Bahorel found him, wailing.

‘We need to move! Grantaire! We need to go!’

Grantaire couldn’t do anything but shake him head, more tears falling free from his eyes.

‘Grantaire! I’m not leaving you, but you have to leave him! Come on, mate!’

And before he knew it, just like he had with the dead man, Bahorel had his hands under Grantaire’s arms, dragging him free of the pale cold corpse and dragging him to his feet. Only Grantaire wasn’t like the Unknown Soldier. Grantaire was alive. He was far too much alive.

 

When they dropped back into the trenches, Bahorel just clutched his friend to his chest, not caring who was watching or looking at them. _They can fuck themselves_ , he thought, slowly and ever so slightly rocking Grantaire in his arms whilst whispering soothing words - at some point, Bahorel felt, they would all be like this and then who would they be to judge?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH by Wilfred Owen
> 
> What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?  
> Only the monstrous anger of the guns.  
> Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle  
> Can patter out their hasty orisons.  
> No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;  
> Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –  
> The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;  
> And bugles calling for them from sad shires.  
> What candles may be held to speed them all?  
> Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes  
> Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.  
> The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;  
> Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,  
> And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds
> 
>  
> 
> Wilfred Owen was a World War One poet who wrote of the true atrocities of fighting trench warfare and did not hide his disdain for those who controlled the war.  
> Seriously, if you are interested, I highly recommend looking him up - he is so interesting as he was very religious going into the war and struggled with that throughout, as well as being invalided home at one point and sent to a mental hospital only to be redeployed when deemed fit. At the hospital he met another of the famous poet, Siegfried Sassoon (who I also highly recommend looking up!) who was Owen's hero and inspired much of his writing. Sassoon helped him get published whilst in the hospital and many rumours and historians say that the two become lovers.
> 
> Owen was killed exactly one week before the end of the war.
> 
> I think he and Grantaire would have gotten along with each other.


	4. Chapter 4

Each time they go over, Grantaire switches off more and more.  He can't allow himself to feel whatever had washed over him the first time again.

Bahorel watches as the cynic becomes more withdrawn from the group he was once central to, helpless.

Grantaire will sit by himself in a corner, or next to Bahorel in silence, drawing away at a notepad he procured. Once, Bahorel is certain that R is trying to sketch the face of the dead soldier he had been clutching but decides against questioning him on it. Everyone' hurting and dealing in their own way – now wasn’t the time.

More men that they had trained with died.

Some days, they lost nobody. One day they lost twenty five. It was all down to Lady Luck or fate, _or whatever the hell people think to reconcile this war with some higher power_ , Grantaire thinks.

Each day he sees men die and be wounded. A few days after the Incident, out beyond the lines again he had tripped and fallen on something and found himself face to face with the corpse of some poor bugger with half his head blown off. Grantaire stayed silent and rolled off him, promptly vomiting and having to wipe tears from his eyes he didn’t even know had begun to well there. He got up and continued his march, gun in hand and more tears rolling down his face. That was all he could do. The machine kept rolling on and so must he.

Eventually, the tears for the dead stopped all together. Instead, Grantaire wanted to cry for the living, stuck in this forsaken Limbo. The few times he did go to University before the war, Grantaire had read Classics. Homer’s Odyssey came rushing back to him on the front – Odysseus’ journey down into the Underworld; Dante’s Inferno too. _This is what it was like for them_ , he imagined. He was in Hell. They were all in Hell. And the shadows of the dead were ever present.

 

***

 

Six months into their deployment, they had made no visible progress. Grantaire doubted they had made any intelligence progress either. Reinforcements arrived, though not for their battalion. They still had three or four months before they left.

A new group of fresh faces did the same walk that Grantaire and Bahorel had made – through the hospital and up the various trenches.

Americans had made their triumphant arrival. The Japanese had made a mistake bringing them into the war.

Many of the Americans quickly settle in amongst the other Allies, telling them were they had come from, where they had fought, what they had seen – though one of the higher ranking men stays off to side, seemingly content to watch his men interact while positioning himself slightly awkwardly separate. Naturally, Bahorel and Grantaire make their way over. The two British aren’t sure as to his exact rank – the system is different from their own, which they know like the back of their hand. The ranking soldier makes brief eye contact and looks away to his men again, almost trying to ignore the two tired and dirty privates walking towards him, until they are standing in front of him and he cannot anymore.

‘Privates’, he nods, nervously.

He is young and innocent looking, though the insignia on his collar is testament to the fact that he cannot be as naive as his face lets on.

‘Sorry’, says Grantaire, ‘We aren’t sure how to address you...’, with a gesture to the uniform of the American.

‘Oh! My apologies, I forgot that you wouldn’t know. Second Lieutenant.’

‘Nice to make your acquaintance Lieutenant...?’

‘Pontmercy. Marius Pontmercy’, he says, almost like he is apologising again.

‘I’m Grantaire. This is Bahorel.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Grantaire, and you, Bahorel’, Pontmercy nods again at the both of them.

‘Wonderful place for it’, Grantaire winks in return, ‘So what’s a man like you doing in a place like this?’

‘Oh! Um-well, command sent us her-’ ‘Don’t mind R’, Bahorel interrupts, ‘He is our resident cynic. We wheel him out at parties.’

‘Oh. Of course’, is all the Lieutenant has to offer, ‘I’m sorry, it’s just – all these men are new you see. I was promoted not all that long ago. I think most of them think that they are older or more mature or more intelligent than me. I don’t want to mess this up. I’m a bit preoccupied with, you know.’ He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

‘Yeah’, Grantaire replies, mimicking the hand-wave, ‘The war. It has the habit of doing that.’

Bahorel rolls his eyes and claps Marius on the back. ‘It’ll be fine, mate, you’ll see.’

 

***

 

Once they get properly talking to the Lieutenant, he opens up. Between missions over the top, debriefings and the comings and goings from the trenches, Marius grows increasingly fond of the two British soldier and they become equally happy to have him around. Slowly but surely, Marius begins to tell them about how he signed up.

He was from money– big money – and had trained as a lawyer at a proper University in America. He had liked the work as a lawyer, most of the time at least. His father had been a soldier too, a colonel in fact, in the First World War.

‘No wonder they swooped on you for Officer Training – you were practically born for it. A legacy! The role of a lifetime!’ Grantaire laughed humourlessly, dipping his helmet slightly in the American’s direction, before talking another gulp of the last of the contraband booze Uncle Sam brought with them when they arrived two weeks ago.

‘...I enlisted. It wasn’t conscription, my number never came up. I had to do something, you know? I couldn’t stand to watch it happen. I mean, I’m able to make some small difference here so why shouldn’t I?’

‘Hear, hear!’ Bahorel shouts.

‘Whatever you say, Pontmercy; it’s still all a damned fucking waste’, was all Grantaire could supply, under his breath but loud enough still to be heard.

‘Good night privates’, Marius said eyes firmly to the ground and not meeting Grantaire’s gaze, ‘We’re going over again tomorrow. The call is at 0500.’


	5. Chapter 5

It is four weeks later that it happens.

  
Back in the front line trench, they are going over the top almost every day as sometimes it’s as if reinforcements can’t come fast enough. _If any brass-hat thinks that the ground battle is redundant this war they should spend a week here_ , Grantaire thinks trying to sleep one night, _One week here is sure to change their mind_. By the grace of some God or the other Bahorel and Marius are still with him - though Marius has lost about a third of his men. Sometimes Grantaire will pass one of their bodies on the field, pretending that he never saw it or that he even recognised the face.

  
The sun rises like it does every morning despite Grantaire’s doubts. By the time it peaks it head above the horizon, he and a hundred other men are already making their way over the side of the trench, his two friends included. Gun cocked and enough ammunition to last for a while Grantaire went through the motions. He knew Jerry was close; he can almost feel their eyes on him, a thought which makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  
Everything happens in a blur – a flurry of movement and noise.

  
The man next to him is hit by a sniper. The shot goes through his chest and out the other side and the company of men react on instinct to flatten themselves on the ground. R crawls over to the shot man. He is already dead. _At least it was quick_.

  
Bahorel comes to join Grantaire at his side, ‘He’s gone, R, and we are sitting ducks here.’

Grantaire hardly even knows the direction the shot came from – it could have been anywhere in the early morning mist. The shelling has been redoubled. The Axis is making a move on the trenches today and they are stuck in the middle.

  
The first wave of soldiers falls upon them like a tonne of bricks. Grantaire switches everything off and rapidly fires at whatever moves in his direction, praying that it hits its intended target and not one of his comrades in the back. He is used to this now – but it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t disgust him. The screams rang out.

  
‘WE NEED TO FIND COVER’ Marius shouts above the carnage.

  
‘Over here!’ a voice calls. Once this first wave abates there was a brief respite where Grantaire follows to where the voice had come from. He finds a shell hole, deep enough to almost stand in, with around fifteen troops on alert inside. Bahorel was there, ‘R!’ he whispered excitedly. He has to try his hardest not to shout out with relief. Grantaire slides down the side of the hole and makes his way to Bahorel who bumps him fondly, and then instantly returns to high alert.

  
Marius is nowhere to be seen. Grantaire wants to panic. He wants so very much to panic and call out for his friend.

Bahorel can sense what he wants to do, ‘It won’t help anyone, mate. Just have to wait, okay?’

  
 _Not okay_ , Grantaire thinks, _far from okay_ , but now is not the time. It is a dog-eat-dog world they live in and Grantaire has to keep Bahorel, and himself, alive. A few individual Axis soldiers find their hiding place but they are all quickly silenced with a bullet or a swipe of a knife. Grantaire fights off two of them, stabbing the fit and dragging the second in to the trench to swish the dagger across his throat. Fast, clinical. Grantaire doesn’t feel a thing. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

  
Around half an hour later there is more movement in the smoky haze - shuffling to their right which the small team in the hole train their guns on. A figure emerges, covered in blood and mud, clutching their gun tightly in their hand. It’s the darling freckled face that Grantaire has been waiting on – his American is here. He rushes to drag him down into their make-shift trench and could almost kiss him with joy. Grantaire looks him over, ‘Are you okay? Are you hurt? Is it your blood?’ he demands without waiting for an answer. Marius shakes his head, trembling and trying hard to keep his breathing steady.

  
‘I was stuck with one other. They came. Three of them. I shot two before they really got a good look. Not the third... he hit the man with me. Right between the eyes. I threw my knife at him. It was too late. I didn’t know who else was out there so I just began dragging myself around. ‘Til... now. I suppose.’ He continues to focus on deep, consistent breaths and closes his eyes.

Grantaire rubs Marius’ arm while he calms himself, wishing that there were so many men watching so he could embrace the young Lieutenant. The other men though have started to notice who was just pulled into their hole and recognise him as the ranking soldier, turning to him for guidance.

  
‘Pontmercy, we have to get back’, Bahorel says to him, ‘Let’s start trying to get back’

 

  
***

 

  
Time passes – they know not how long. Grantaire tries to figure out how many hours they have spent in this pit by looking at the Sun, but all that accomplishes is getting spots appearing in front of his eyes which can’t help anyone if they are discovered. They are sitting in wait too long. They can’t stay here. ‘I say we move and I say we do it now before we can talk ourselves into staying in this shell hole the rest of our lives’.

  
Marius nods gently, ‘I agree, it’s getting dark which is good, but we should move before it gets pitch black and we can’t see a bloody thing.’ The other soldiers rally around the Second Lieutenant. Grantaire almost smiles at the thought that at this time, in this position and when Marius was so worried about the opinion of so many of these men, they turn to him. Marius is a face that they can trust and they have come to know of his experience in this war. The wailing of a shell and its final destination only a few metres away from them brings him back to reality. Grantaire is nothing if not a realist.

  
Men begin to crawl up the side of the pit, guns in hand or slung across their backs. Marius leads the way up. It only takes a couple of minutes before all the soldier are out of their refuge and pointing in the vague direction of Allied lines. They have about three hundred metres to cross.

  
Movement is relatively slow as they face all directions to ward off an attack. The closer they get to home, the more they hurry. One hundred metres away and a sniper hits them again. His first kill drops almost silently, creating a moment of initial confusion as to how the man fell. When his blood begins seeping across his uniform, they realise but it already too late. The sniper strikes again, taking down the man next to Bahorel. Bahorel stands and returns fire in the direction of the assault. There is a grunt – a sign that one of his bullets hit home. The Allies start to run for their trench. So close, yet so far away.

  
‘Bahorel, Marius – move!’ Grantaire shouts at them, ‘Everyone fucking move!’

  
The shot that hits Bahorel happen almost in slow motion. To Grantaire it’s almost as if the sound of the offending gun rings out above the rest and as if he watches the bullet all the way into his brother-in-arms’ stomach. ‘Fucking hell’, is all Bahorel can get out before he drops to his knees in pain.

  
Grantaire is frozen for only a moment before leaping into action. He covers the couple of metres separating he and his friend and reaches down to try and feel a pulse. He can’t but his hands are beginning to shake too much to feel anything. Bahorel has to be alright. He has to be. The flashback plays in front of his eyes again – the symmetry is suffocating. The image of that first man killed at R’s side and the pointless journey carrying his dead weight. It cannot happen again. Grantaire won’t let that be Bahorel.

  
Marius drops into the trench with five survivors. None of them are Grantaire or Bahorel. He wants to curl into a ball. So this is how they felt when he didn’t arrive.

  
Three minutes later, the familiar black mess of hair under the helmet appears above him, a limp body draped over his shoulder. This body is passed down into the line first, into the waiting arms of some soldiers and Grantaire follows it. ‘Medic! We need a fucking medic!’ he chokes out between sounds that are caught part way between a sob and a pant. He is completely exhausted but will not collapse until someone gets Bahorel on a stretcher – he is vaguely aware of a pain in his upper left arm, shaking it off. Marius tried to talk to him but he shakes him off too. He won’t do anything until Bahorel is okay.

  
A medical corps officer rushes up and places a hand on the wounded man’s neck like Grantaire had tried to. ‘There is a weak pulse’, he confirms, ‘We have to get him out of this filth and down to the triage’. Two others place him on a stretcher and begin to carry him away. Watching him leave, Grantaire feels a weight off his shoulders and feels light headed in comparison to a moment ago. It’s almost nice – almost like being drunk.

  
‘Private?’, he hears the Medic question, ‘Private, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me. Can you hear me? Private? I am Lieutenant Joly and I need you to take a deep breath and come with me’

  
‘What? Why? Why do you want me?’

  
‘Private, you’ve been shot’.

  
‘Oh’, and with that, Grantaire finally collapses.


	6. Chapter 6

When Grantaire wakes there is light streaming through a gap in the canvas sheets of the field hospital.  He’s lying on a stretcher propped up in thin legs – one of a long line and a man in each.  His head throbs dully behind his eyes; almost like he is hung-over.  Reaching up, he rubs at his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.  Why does he feel so hazy?  Looking at the bandage wrapped around his arm near his shoulder he realises that he must have been given painkiller.  _Likely morphine,_ he thinks.  Clearly he has slept through the night.  _Boy, this stuff is good._

It doesn’t take long for all the memories to come back to him.  Beyond his wound he thinks of the hours spent in the shell hole, of the sniper, of Marius and of Bahorel. 

 

Bahorel.

 

‘Shit!’ he cries, sitting up much too quickly on the stretcher for his head to adjust.  He blinks away stars. ‘Where’s Bahorel?  Where is he? Is he okay?!’

A pretty nurse comes rushing over to him.  ‘Private, it’s okay.  Calm down.  Deep breaths.’ He frantically looks around for his friend.  The nurse checks the medical tag attached to the breast of his clothes ‘Grantaire, please, you have to calm down.  Does it hurt?  How’s your arm?’  She begins to examine his dressing and looks into his eyes to check his pupils.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine’, Grantaire says trying to get the nurse to focus her attention on more important matters he grabs her by the shoulders and looks her square in the eyes, ‘Bahorel, the other private who came in with me, is he here?  Is he alive?’

‘Private, you have to understand that many men come through her-’

‘Yes, I know – but Bahorel! I need to know he is okay, that he is alive.  He can’t just be another number in this fucking war!  He can’t!’  Grantaire wants to cry again.  He closes his eyes tight but that only brings the image of a bloody Bahorel closer to the surface.  With a gasp he reopens them to find the nurse still standing next to his bed, sympathy all over her face.

‘I’ll get the doctor for you.  He may know more, okay?  Just a moment.’

Grantaire mutters a thanks to her as she flits away to find her superior.  Bahorel can’t be dead.  The war cannot have taken him.  It isn’t fair.  _Life isn’t fair_ , he thinks.  God, he feels like screaming – but who would care?  What’s one scream to add to the thousands.  He bites down hard on his lip and tears the little medical booklet off his chest.

In it is written his name, age, rank, diagnosis (“GSW, upper left arm, tissue damage – torn through muscle, no bone fragmentation, mild shock”) and treatment (“stitches in wound, morphine administered, Sulfadiazine/sulfanilamide to be administered to prevent infection“).  By the time he finishes reading the miniature account, the nurse returns with the medic who came to the trenches. 

‘Grantaire, I’m glad to see you awake.  How are you feeling?’ Joly enquires.

‘Fantastic.  Could run a marathon... Lieutenant’ he tacks on the end, remembering the doctor’s rank

‘Right, well, I’m told you have some questions about your comrade.  Who came off the field with you, correct?’

‘Yes, sir.  Bahorel’

‘You have to understand, his wound was very serious.’

Grantaire can feel himself deflating and the scream rising in his throat once more.

‘Oh,’ Joly notices how the private is shrinking, ‘he is alive, don’t misunderstand – that is to say, he was alive when he treated him briefly here.  He has to be evacuated so has been moved.  I don’t really know much else about his condition, I’m so sorry’

Grantaire can see that Joly is truly apologetic for not knowing more.  The look on his face touches right to his eyes, which are soft and friendly, and even though there is so little information that Joly has for him, Grantaire feels comforted by the doctor’s words.  Bahorel was alive.  He survived getting to treatment which is so often the trouble for battle field injuries.

‘You saved his life, Private,’ Joly says, pulling Grantaire out of his revelries with a strong and steady hand on his shoulder, ‘You should be proud of what you did for your mate.’  The smile that stretches across Joly’s face and Grantaire weakly returns it as best he can.  Apparently Grantaire has done some good in this world aside from killing Germans.  _That’s something._

‘He has a better chance than most get to pull through his wound... though, please hear me when I say, many do not’ Joly’s voice becoming more serious, ‘he sustained a wound to the abdominal cavity and I could not assess it properly here.  He has been moved to the Evacuation Hospital for surgery and eventual return to Britain.’

 _Always a downside to everything_.  Grantaire nods to show that he understands what has been said to him.  Joly squeezes his shoulder and removes his hand.

 

‘Now, let me look at your dressing – oh, it’s filthy – I’ll change it.’  Joly rushes over to a small table lined with bandages and metal instruments, bringing back to Grantaire’s bed a bottle of something, a pair of scissors and a roll of bandage.  He pulls on gloves and begins to unwrap the old bandage.  As he unwinds, Grantaire can see the red of his blood getting darker and darker as they get closer to the skin; finally unveiling the gunshot wound that Grantaire hadn’t even noticed on the frontline.  Four stitches are across it and now that it is exposed to the air, its actual existence is seemingly confirmed to Grantaire.  He can feel the pain through the morphine.  R winces.

 

‘How’s the pain?’ Joly asks, somewhat arbitrarily, as he shakes a small amount of powder from the bottle onto the wound.

‘Well, it’s certainly making itself known’ Grantaire says, clenching his teeth slightly.  Joly chuckles,

‘Here, take one of these.  For the pain’

‘No more morphine?’ asks Grantaire with a smirk

‘No more morphine’, Joly confirms as he looks up at his patient, corners of his lips tweaking up.  (Grantaire is almost disappointed.  It was nice while it lasted.)  ‘Glad to see you have a sense of humour’ he continues, returning to re-bandaging Grantaire’s arm with the fresh, clean and mostly sterile bandages.

Joly would thank Florence Nightingale for her work if he could – he couldn’t imagine what hospitals must have been like before her.  Actually, he didn’t want to imagine.

 

‘Ah, Lieutenant, what else do we have if we cannot laugh...’  Joly finishes his work and gives Grantaire another smile.

‘If you need anything, I should be around to help.  The nurses will be around too if I’m busy somewhere else.’

‘Thanks, Doc’

‘Joly, please’.

 

With that Joly collects up the old dressings from Grantaire’s bed and take them away, leaving Grantaire alone again – alone in the room of the other wounded soldiers.  Some are moaning from the pain.  Some are just moaning in their sleep.

_Damn nightmares._

Grantaire lowers himself to lie down on the stretcher again.  The canvas is thin, but sturdy and anything is comfortable compared to his sleeping arrangements for the past eight months.  He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep. 

_God, if you’re listening – if you’re there – please, let Bahorel live.  Don’t kill him too, you bastard.  You’ve taken so many, you don’t need him. Just – please – leave my friend with me._

Grantaire can’t decide if that is the most selfish thought he has ever had; and it keeps him up all night.


	7. Chapter 7

Grantaire’s wound heals slower than expected and within the week there are talks of evacuating him from the front for treatment in a British hospital.  As he absent-mindedly scratches at the itch growing under his bandage, Grantaire thinks he couldn’t care less about the hole in his arm.

_Just tell me about Bahorel.  Just give me some news._

Each day he asks Joly for any new information.  The doctor is as accommodating as he can be – but generally, he is rushing around the beds he’s tending to more serious patients than Grantaire and trying to keep his area clean, therefore R feels that he needs to stay quiet and let Joly try to save lives.  At least someone on the front is doing it. 

He ponders the difference in their two roles – Grantaire as the infantry Private and Joly as the specialist Lieutenant.  Grantaire sends men to hospitals just like this one; some are without a chance and are given painkillers to ease their dying, others are treated; but either way, men like Joly are trying to negate the evil out on the battlefield. 

Joly is a beacon of light in the shithole that is the Western Front. 

Ever the cynic, Grantaire could help but think on the fact that Joly is fixing these men just so they can try and kill themselves again.  While Grantaire job in this war was hard, he reckons that in Joly’s position the constant urge to curl up in a corner and let the sobs wrack through him would be unbearable.

Yet there Joly is, smiling and spreading some hope to the hopeless and Grantaire catches himself wanting to aspire to be more like the seemingly unimposing doctor.  It’s not as if Joly doesn’t understand the futility of many of his actions.  In private, the smile can falter and tears may escape to roll down his face; though they are wiped away as soon as they fall.

There is no time for tears.  No time to waste when there are men perpetually dying.

 

 

***

 

 

A week and a half in various branches of the hospital and it is decided that Grantaire’s progress is too slow to warrant keeping him on the front.  His arm is still too sore for combat and has limited use.

 _Useless again_ , Grantaire thinks to himself, _may as well be drunk in London._

Joly comes up to inform Grantaire of his imminent evacuation from Belgium.  Emotionally, Grantaire is drawing a blank.  Certainly, there is some excitement about going back to Britain and away from the death that lingers in the air here; but that means leaving everyone behind - means leaving Marius behind and the other survivors from his small company from Scotland.  The tie of Bahorel may have been lifted from this god-forsaken place yet Marius is still holding a piece of him here.

Almost on cue, the freckled face appears, sweeping away the canvas doors of the tent as he steps in.  A grin creeps across his face as he sees Grantaire sitting up in bed and he sticks a hand out when he reaches the bed for his comrade to shake.

‘I’ll leave you two to talk’ Joly says, then nods his head at Marius, ‘Lieutenant’.  Marius returns the gesture to his equal before Joly heads onto the next bed to examine R’s neighbour’s facial shrapnel wounds – scars of the war that are not as easy to hide as Grantaire’s.

Marius turns his attention to his friend, ‘Hear you bought your ticket out of here.  You’re heading home’, the sentence wanting to come out more enthusiastically than it does

‘I’ve been declared invalid – don’t know why it took them so long.  I was drunk when I enlisted, did I tell you that?  Think that should have alerted some people right then and there’ R replies with a wink

‘So when are you off?’

‘Tomorrow is the next boatload out’

‘That’s soon... We were only relieved of the front line yesterday.  I wanted to come and see you and Bahorel sooner but we had to continue up there for the last couple of days, and then I heard Bahorel wasn’t here anymore and...’ the disappointment cannot be hidden any longer, ‘Have you hea- That is, do you know anything about-’

‘Bahorel was evacuated the day he was brought in.  I haven’t heard anything.  Joly, the medic’ – Grantaire waves a hand in the direction of his apparently hypochondriac new companion (seriously, Grantaire has been watching him for a few days now, it was quite intriguing to watch the doctor’s idiosyncrasies and habits) – ‘has been trying to get information but... there are so many wounded.  You can’t really track them that easily.  Especially from this end’

‘I understand, I mean, we would have heard something if he was...’

The sentence remains unfinished.  It’s not a thought they want to linger on, nor is it a thought they can afford to linger on – they must keep moving forward to keep up with the frantic motion around them.  Grantaire reaches and squeezes Pontmercy’s hand.  Marius clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath before meeting Grantaire’s eyes.

‘Be careful when you get back to England, okay Grantaire?’

‘Me be careful?’ Grantaire replies incredulously, ‘I’ll be away!  You’re still here!  In all this fucking mess!  Tell me your battalion is out soon’

‘Two months to go before some of us head back Stateside – others will go to other sections of this Front and the other.  It all depends.  Could even be sent to the Pacific, I don’t know where I’m heading next.  Maybe I should get some leave and visit you’ Marius laughs

‘That would be good. Come and meet our barrage balloons – it’s like a party every night!’

Grantaire joins the American in his laughter.  It’s been a while since he had an excuse to laugh even if the humour is somewhat dry, neither of them mind.

‘I’m serious though Grantaire, be careful.  I grew up with my grandfather because my father wasn’t fit to raise me at the time.’  R looks at him quizzically, ‘Shellshock,’ Marius provides quietly in answer to the silent question.  ‘I saw him once or twice.  Wars can do more than give you a hole through your arm’

‘I’ll be fine Marius, look at me’ he says, gesturing at his whole body, ‘I’m Grantaire – dancer, philosopher, cynic!’

Marius doesn’t laugh this time at Grantaire’s attempt at lightening the mood, ‘Just promise me that you’ll take care – even if they don’t reassign you, even if you never have to look twice at the army again.  Take care of yourself, R.’

‘Alright, mate, I promise I’ll do the best I can’

‘Thank you.  I really need to be heading back.  They’ll start to miss me’, Marius smiles once more, ‘Enjoy your trip home.  Make the most of it’.  Marius boycotts shaking Grantaire’s hand again and throws an arm around his back to pull him into a one-armed hug.  The Brit returns the hug, burying his head between Marius’ neck and shoulder.  He wants nothing more than to plant a kiss on his friend’s freckled dirty cheek but forces himself not to act on the impulse.  Instead he buries his head deeper into the dirty, well-worn uniform.  It’s no longer hard and stiff like they are hen they are distributed – it’s muck-stained and blood-stained, it’s soft and supple.  The uniforms have lost their innocence and youth just like the men who wear them.

‘I’ll miss you, Grantaire’

‘You too, Lieutenant’ R says, slightly muffled by his position, ‘Try not to die.  Please, be safe.  Visit.’  Grantaire can feel Marius nodding before he pulls away to look Grantaire in the eyes one last time.

‘Private’ he says, inclining his head; then turns on his heel and heads back the way he came - back to the maze of the trenches.

 

 

***

 

 

Grantaire’s evacuation is uneventful compared to his last eight months in Europe.  Looking at the other soldiers leaving the front, his wound feels pathetic and inadequate.  Men are being transported who have lost an arm, a leg, one of each; men with bandages wrapped around their eyes and heads; men without any limbs at all; and then there’s Grantaire – a single gunshot wound to the arm.

_I can’t even get injured right._

He arrives back in Britain to no fanfare or parades.  No victory – just ambulances and nurses waiting to take the evacuees from vessel to hospital.  No-one really knows that these men have even landed back on home soil.  In the eyes of many, they aren’t the heroes of the war; they are the broken and no-one wants to hear about the broken.

Once at the hospital, his wound is assessed again.  It is restitched and he is administered more drugs to stop infection.

If war is good for anything, it’s medicine; nothing forces doctors to push themselves further and harder more than war wounds do.

 

 

***

 

 

In London, he goes back to his flat to wait for orders.  It’s exactly the same as he left it.  He checks his mail – there is a new note from the War Office.  His superiors have recommended him for a medal for bravery and there is a notification that his actions were mentioned in the reports sent home.

 _How nice of them_ , he thinks, _manifestation of my prowess at killing._  

Really though, Grantaire feels that he doesn’t deserve anything for saving Bahorel from No Man’s Land.  Bahorel was – is – his friend and Grantaire couldn’t leave him to die.  It is simple.

His paints and canvases are all still there in every room.  His note pads and charcoal and sketch books – everything; so, Grantaire starts to draw the Front.  He starts to draw the memories.  The paintings are black and brown and red.  Long brushstrokes and sharp lines; abstract and aggressive and pained.  He scratches the charcoal at the page, smearing black everywhere.  It coats his fingers and eventually his face every time he rubs at it.

He cries and the tears fall on the pages but he continues working.  For four days Grantaire does nothing but drink and draw, eating very little and talking to nobody.  Nobody would understand, even if there was anybody to listen.  Not even Grantaire understands – but at least seeing it on the paper and canvas makes it real. 

Though he does understand the men at the pub now, why they never talked and sat in their own worlds.  There was nothing else to do. He thought that they all had the same story, always wondered why they didn't talk to each other. He knows now that though they were all in the war, they couldn't relate - different mates had died, maybe even lovers, people had left them, they had been hurt and they were all suffering their own trials. Alone.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.  The nightmares keep him up through the night.  Without the exhaustion caused by fighting on the frontline, the nightmares take over his nights.

The newspaper doesn’t tell the truth; too often there are articles about bravery and victory and success.  It’s not like that.  Success is killing more of the enemy than they do of you; bravery is wanting to save your own life so much you don’t care who you kill, just as long as you get out of the hole you are stuck in; _and victory is a fucking myth_ , Grantaire thinks.

The tabloids don’t tell the story like that.

Nothing in his flat has changed, London hasn’t really changed but something in Grantaire has changed. 

The hole in his chest has grown and it’s a hole that still can’t be filled with scotch – not that that will stop Grantaire from trying.   But he remembers the promise he made to his American and his desire to see Bahorel well again – once he finds out where his friend is, of course.

Two weeks later, Grantaire is deemed fit to return to active duty and told to await orders. 

It’s been ten months since he first left England.  Ten months.  Christmas and New Year have been and gone.  Time has continued in the real world in a way that it didn’t in the trenches.

Almost a year and it has been both the longest and shortest of Grantaire’s life.


	8. Chapter 8

That same week after being declared able-bodied again, yet another letter arrives from the War Office.  They certainly don’t waste any time sending fit men back to front – they need all the help they can get.  It requests the Private’s attendance at a meeting with some military brass or the other and gives a date, in two days time, and an address for Grantaire to go to in Baker Street.

 _Strange, I’ve never heard of offices in Baker Street..._ Grantaire muses as he reads the letter again.  He has been physically and mentally cleared for redeployment, so surely they would just send him back to Belgium?  Throwing the summons down onto the table, Grantaire picks up his pencil and continues to draw for the next two days.

 

 

***

 

 

The morning of his meeting arrives and Grantaire is thankful to have his uniform on once more.  If anything it saves him from trying to find a clean pair of slacks and a shirt.  Donning his cap he looks at himself in the mirror.  Just another Private walking down the street.

He makes his way over to Baker Street on foot as it’s really not that far away from his flat and, even though his head is hurting and the Sun is bright in his eyes, it’s comforting to use his legs and go somewhere.  Usually, he would still be asleep at this time, before the war; but sleep came hard these days – in fits and starts broken by nightmares and phantom calls to arms.  He yawns at the thought of his lack of sleep.

The Baker Street address is an inconspicuous building functioning as an office of some kind of another.  Grantaire reaches the door and is unsure how to go about going inside.  Does he knock?  Just open the door?

His question is answered as the door swings open. A woman in uniform asks him to come inside, stepping out of the doorway and shows him to a seat in the hallway.  He takes of his cap with small flourish and some of the more unruly strands of his hair spring out in protest against their enclosure.  Grantaire winks at the secretary and flashes a smile but she is unfazed and unimpressed, knocking on one of the doors a little way down, sticking her head in to notify whoever is inside of Grantaire’s arrival.  She walks back past Grantaire and goes back to the desk she was working at before the interruption, returning to typing out a copy of the handwritten document next to her typewriter.

Grantaire surveys the hallway.  It’s plain; nothing special or unique about it.  It is a hallway as any other in London would be.  A number of doors line the walls, the spaces in between them occupied by wooden chairs.  On the wall directly opposite Grantaire is a picture of the King, looking stoic and dignified; looking very British indeed.

A few minutes of Grantaire fidgeting and tapping his fingers on his knees later and the door the secretary knocked on reopens and the brass-hat inside emerges.  He gestures to Grantaire without word to enter his office and disappears again.  R takes this cue and follows him into the room, the door shut firmly behind him.

‘Please, sit Private’ says the soldier, making another gesture toward the chair on one side of his desk.  Grantaire’s eyes flash as habit to the man’s uniform, specifically his shoulders and lapel.  Grantaire likes having a clue who he is talking to, a clear picture of the course of the conversation – likes knowing just how inferior he is to the other men.

Three pips beneath a crown - Brigadier. 

 _Shit, I’m in a meeting with a Brigadier_. Grantaire does as he is told. His uniform suddenly feels very bear and undecorated.  He tugs awkwardly at the front of his jacket as he plants himself on the chair, placing his hat on his thighs.

‘Now, clearly you would be wondering why you have been summoned here today, am I right?’ 

‘Yes, sir’

‘Good.  I am Brigadier Javert.  Do you know where you are?’

‘Baker Street, sir?’

‘You are in one of the buildings of the Special Operations Executive.  The SOE.’

Grantaire gives him a confused look.  He has never heard of the SOE – hasn’t even stumbled across any mention of it until now.

Javert continues proudly, ‘We are an organisation established to co-ordinate with foreign forces outside the regular armies and aid with the liberation of occupied Europe’

‘Spies,’ Grantaire says, disbelievingly.  Grantaire almost feels like laughing at the notion.  He smiles and looks up at the bright light above him, hands lifting to ruffle his hair slightly, clasping behind his head and holding there for a second before dropping back to his thighs.

‘Yes, private, if you want to call our operatives that.  We do have a broader function but, yes’.  Javert sounds near offended by his subordinate’s use of such a crude term and his reaction.  Grantaire shifts slightly in the seat under the glare of the Brigadier.  ‘I have read your records.  You were invalided home recently from Belgium where you showed bravery and leadership in mortal peril’ It’s not a question. ‘You saved the life of a comrade by carrying him back to the lines’

 _He sounds like he is quoting my records.  Does he know it by heart?_ Grantaire thinks.  He doesn’t even know what his record says, why is this man quoting it at him?  A moment passes before the final part of Javert’s sentence sinks in.  Saved the life.  Bahorel survived.  He lives.

‘Yes, sir?’ Grantaire says, almost questioningly.  He is unsure whether he heard correctly.  Nothing thus far in life has gone his way; why should it start now? 

_Not that I would be complaining if it did start know.  In fact, this is a bloody good time for luck to go my way if you don’t mind._

‘I should inform you that that comrade is currently recovering in a facility outside the city.  He is going through extensive rehabilitation but I have been told to let you know of his condition and whereabouts.  I have an address for you also.’

There it is.  Javert puts it so bluntly and matter-of-factly that Grantaire is finding it hard to breathe.  Bahorel is alive.  He is going to live.  He is getting better.  Grantaire feels almost giddy – he wants to laugh hysterically and maybe grab Javert’s hands and dance around the office.  He doesn’t though.  He stays seated as Javert has begun to look at him with a raised eyebrow – he saw the flash of something behind Grantaire’s eyes and the fidgeting of the private.  Grantaire refocuses.  ‘Thank you, sir,’ is all Grantaire says, hoping that the raised pitch of his voice goes unnoticed.

Javert nods, ‘Now, your records also show that you have a background in France.  Your family is from there?’

‘We left when I was young.  To come here after the Great War’

‘And do you speak French?’

‘I was fluent once.  Bit shabby now but practise makes perfect again...’

‘Right.  Well, it would seem that I am in a position to reassign you to this division.  You became a person of note early in Belgium but we see you returning here as an opportunity.  The SOE will commission you to work in Section F - our French division.’

Javert’s explanation of things is not helping Grantaire at all.  ‘If I may’ – Javert gestures for him to continue – ‘I still don’t really know what I am doing here...’

‘Private, you are going to be attached from now on to the French division of the Executive.  You will be sent on to the French mainland, naturally after training, to work with operatives of the SOE on that end and liase with men of the Resistance movements.  Clear?’

‘As mud, sir’ Grantaire needs a drink to make this conversation sit slightly better in his mind.

 

 

***

 

 

Training is much more extensive than the five weeks Grantaire spent in Scotland the first time around.  He is told by some men of a joke that SOE stands for ‘Stately ‘omes of England’ and the new operative learns quickly why.  Mansions and country estates across the United Kingdom have been requisitioned for the use of this secret branch of the war effort.  Some are used for research – in technology like radios and new explosives, others as experimental facilities and others then as the actual training schools for new recruits.  He is issued his handgun, his new knife and various other items all for the sole use of the ‘Baker Street Iregulars’ – as operatives are called by those who need to know of their existence – including a suicide pill encased in a button.

 _This is the world we live in_ , Grantaire thinks as he is shown how the button works one day, _you die one way or the other and head for the ‘undiscovered country’_. _Can’t be much worse than here –most countries here are fucked._

R learns how to pick locks, set explosives (there is a new plastic explosive that is the preferred demolition tool of the SOE), use the radios and is taught a never-ending list of ciphers and codes, different ones for different occasions.  Grantaire is training in the art of espionage.  _Who would have guessed it?_ , the thought makes Grantaire chuckle to himself.  He is training to be a spy – it’s the most ridiculous notion he has ever come across.

The parachute drops certainly make it more realistic to him.  This is how he will be deposited in France – parachuted down outside of Paris to meet a member of the Resistance working with Section F.

Closer to his drop date, Grantaire learns more about where he is going.  He studies maps, refreshes his French, is given some new civilian clothing and learns about the branch of the Forces Françaises de L'intérieur, the FFI, he will be housing with and assisting.

A close-knit group of men and women fighting the German-occupation of their country – shining lights of patriotism.  Grantaire scoffs at their idealism, but who is he to stop them trying to make a difference?

One small group, codename: Les Amis, wasn’t going to do it by themselves.  Grantaire learns their number and average age from the files.  They are young; some are still students at Parisian universities, others are in the workforce.  Most of them are trying to keep their heads down majority of the time, picking their battles, though all follow a clear leader.  _It seems they would follow him to their graves,_ Grantaire realises as he sees some of their achievements against the Germans – attacking transports, blocking supply lines - and some of the articles and pamphlets their group are distributing to the oppressed countrymen.

As he reads more and more about them and their work he resolves to help them as much as he possibly can.  Maybe their idealism and hope could eventually rub off if it didn’t kill him first. 

He finally is able to communicate with Bahorel in his rehab facility.  Grantaire can hardly tell him a thing beyond that he is being sent back into battle – he can’t tell him of his mission, even that he is going to France.  No-one must know.  He wants nothing more really than to tell Bahorel everything.  He had gone so many months with Bahorel so close by, a constant in the ever-changing miasma of the world.  He had been Grantaire’s closest companion; the best friend he ever had – still the best friend he has.  They had been through so much side-by-side.  They had held each other as they fell asleep when it all became too much and comforted each other, like so many of the men did, through the night.

And all that apparently needs to be forgotten and Bahorel must know nothing about what his life has become.

_Before I was a service number, and now, I don’t even exist at all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you guys know the Baker Street Irregulars are actually a thing. They were the unofficial for the SOE (Special Operations Executive) that worked out of a building in Baker Street in London.
> 
> They also had a thing for turning mansions and their grounds into bases and training facilities.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AMIS.

Eventually, Grantaire is deemed ready for the drop into France.  His training concludes with more focus on the mechanics of a parachute drop and how he is to meet up with Les Amis – a chosen location outside of Paris where he will be met by friendlies.  Having been born in France yet naturalised in Britain, he is a dual citizen of both countries – a fact that the SOE uses to their advantage in making up Grantaire’s new French passport and other required documents.  His cover has to be fool-proof, his identity must be flawless.  He studies his new passport; they use his name and birth date, all the information on it being true. Grantaire’s military records have been sealed and he greatly doubts the chances of running into anyone from the front in Paris, ally or otherwise.

The morning of the drop, he receives a reply from a letter sent to Bahorel saying that he is still recovering well, that he wishes he could thank Grantaire in person, and that he needs to stay safe as best he can – wherever it is that he is going.  There is no way that Bahorel doesn’t know that something is going on, something in the background that he doesn’t know about; but he knows better than to pry there, better than to push Grantaire for answers that he probably can’t give, especially via letters and not face-to-face.

Grantaire wishes that he could see his friend and perhaps prove to himself that Bahorel is alive; that he is physically still here – that might make some of the risks he is about to take worth it.

He is loaded in to the Handley Page Halifax, grudgingly left by the Air Force for the use of the SOE, with his few and bare supplies as well as radio equipment and a number of small weapons in order to further arm the Resistance.

 _Before, I was fighting the Germans from across a field.  Now I am to fraternize with them and live among them,_ Grantaire ponders as the aircraft takes off from Britain, _how am I expected to stay safe?_

***

 

The newly fledged operative has no idea how long the flight takes, he spends his time looking out the window at the vast expanse of black below him, the true contours of the land hidden by the night – one minute he is getting on the plane and the next, he is preparing to jump, parachute firmly strapped on his back.  The drop, by necessity, must be made at night in order to hide Grantaire from any watchful and malevolent eyes. Only people that need to know of his arrival should be waiting for him when he reaches the earth.  In the distance, and on cue, in front of the plane, Grantaire can see the beacon being lit – his marker and sign that there is at least someone ready to receive him.  One look back at the pilots who brought him here, the co-pilot giving him a thumbs up and signalling the jump, a salute from Grantaire back at them and Grantaire propels himself from the plane.

If Grantaire could think of things beyond timing the release and making sure he doesn’t end up a useless pile of flesh on French soil, he would be able to appreciate the metaphor that this jump has become – in his jump, he propels himself into his new life, headfirst; without looking back at what he has left and with absolutely no clue what he is about to experience when he reaches his destination. 

He counts the seconds until he releases his parachute and watches the beacon on the ground grow ever closer.  Looking back up for the only time during his descent he can see the supply box has also been pushed from the plane and he can see the parachute opening up.  That is for them to recover after Grantaire lands.

The familiar searing pain pulls back hard on his shoulders and back as he pulls the release cord, threatening to liberate his shoulders from their sockets.  It’s almost welcome as it brings with it the relief that the darn thing worked.  Floating down to the earth is almost relaxing; as long as Grantaire doesn’t consider the fact that he is about to place his feet firmly on German-occupied and hostile soil – a danger he has not yet known.

Following a less than graceful landing, and a sinking feeling of disappointment and frustration growing in his stomach as he watches the supplies blow gracefully over his head in a gust of wind and further away from his position, he sees two figures moving in the shadows towards him.  One carries a torch and searches for Grantaire.

_Please be French, please be French, please be French..._

One of the men coming towards him begins to call for Grantaire quietly, ‘Hallo?  Hallo?  Vous etes là?  Où etes-vous?  Grantaire?’

The torchlight washes over Grantaire and the men quicken their pace.

‘Bonjour monsieur, ca va?’ the man continues in French, his voice warm yet rushed; he knows that they should find the supplies and get moving as fast as possible, ‘Are you Grantaire?  We have been waiting for you.  I am Combeferre,’ he says with a smile, helping Grantaire pick himself up from the ground with an outstretched hand.  Combeferre lifts the weight of Grantaire from the ground with apparent ease.  Grantaire dusts himself off and detaches the parachute, Combeferre’s light still on him.  In the dull light, Grantaire can see some of the features of his new acquaintance.

Grantaire studies the Frenchman for a moment, finally seeing one of the Amis he has read so much about, in the flesh.  Combeferre stands tall, matching Grantaire for height and is built similarly also.  He has wide set shoulders and, when helping Grantaire up, he can tell that the man is strong.  A pair of glasses sits on his face, glasses with black rectangular rims; which he, at this moment, pushes further up his nose.  As Combeferre runs a hand through his sandy blonde hair, almost as a direct continuation from readjusting his glasses, the other man who has accompanied him speaks up for the first time.

‘I am Jean Prouvaire. Please, call me Jehan.  We should move’ he says in smooth English sticking out a hand for Grantaire to shake, looking up at the sky and in the vague direction the supplies headed, ‘we need to get to that box quickly’

Combeferre looks at Jehan, nods, and then back at Grantaire, ‘Germans have been around this area for the past week.  I think they have been expecting something – Jehan is right, we should move’

And with that, without further ceremony, the three men begin to walk, Jehan setting a quick pace with his rapid steps.  Grantaire has not had a good look at either man’s face yet, though from behind Jehan he can see the man’s brown hair, tied up and out of his face, probably shoulder length or so when out.  He is shorter than Combeferre, though only by a couple of inches, and not build quite so well, yet the man has no sign of weakness of frailty in his smaller stature.  Both Combeferre and Grantaire have to take long steps to keep up with him.

‘So what do the both of you do within Les Amis?’ Grantaire queries, trying to recall all the information he had stockpiled about the group.  It was hard generally, with codenames being changed and situations constantly shifting, to keep up with who was who in the group.  However, there was no denying that a solid structure existed to keep the group intact – there was a leader, controlling the workings of the group, with the assistance of several others to keep them all in contact.

‘I help co-ordinate with other groups,’ Combeferre answers, ‘Make sure we are on the same page and agree when we can.  Set up meetings.  I set up the meetings with Section F to bring you here.  I am with the RF Section’

Grantaire has learned about the RF Section – the branch of the SOE controlled by the exiled French Government.  _So this was one of the men who appeared often in the reports.  Hell,_ Grantaire thinks, _this is one of the men who writes the reports more often than not._ Combeferre was commended a number of times by the SOE.

‘I am the radio man,’ Jehan contributes, ‘I write the ciphers and decode incoming messages - control the radio contact’

‘And how do you go about that here?  Is there a basis for your particular codes?’

‘It’s mostly lines of poetry.  Because of our work with you British, the BBC is open for us to communicate with each other and with the English.  Next time you here a personal message to someone on BBC radio, it’s probably me or someone like me from another faction of the FFI.  Though, if it’s a line of poetry, chances are that it is actually me,’ Jehan says brightly; it is clear that he enjoys his work as well as appreciating the opportunity to read and write verse which in some cases, saves lives.

After ten minutes of searching in silence they locate the supplies.  Jehan opens Pandora’s Box to see what is inside.

‘I come bearing gifts,’ Grantaire says with a small flourish of his hands

‘You certainly do,’ Combeferre deadpans, eyes fixed on the weapons.

Grantaire has seen that look before – it’s the same look that used to be in his eyes.  It is disgust and disappointment and shame.  It’s realising the abhorrence of the weapons and regretting their necessity.  Combeferre takes his eyes from the crate and looks at the British soldier, who gives his a weak smile in return.  It’s an understanding.  Grantaire thinks that they will get along just fine.

‘Enjolras will be glad to see these,’ Jehan comments, closing the lid, ‘he has been saying for months how we should arm ourselves more, and arm others’

‘Enjolras?’  Grantaire questions, going to help Jehan carry the crate

‘Enjolras,’ Combeferre replies, a small smile playing on his lips, ‘our leader, you could say’

‘Ah, I read quite a bit about him’ is all Grantaire has to say.  _The man who is leading them all to their deaths has a name_ , he thinks.  Grantaire had heard him described and read descriptions, even heard intercepts from German radio about the man – he was an avenging angel, a terrible beauty; he was an embodiment of the Resistance, a figure who wouldn’t look out of place in the Revolution.  _He is death.  For himself and countless others._

‘Reading about him will tell you nothing.’ Combeferre says with a sense of finality, as if he picked up on the edge in Grantaire’s voice and could read what was going on in the Brit’s head.

‘You have just have to wait and meet him,’ Jehan offers as they walk, following Combeferre this time, ‘He is waiting for you tonight.  We are taking you to him.  He wouldn’t wait until morning’ Grantaire can almost feel Jehan’s small eye roll, though he speaks with the same deep-seeded fondness that ran underneath Combeferre’s voice.

‘Everyone else you will meet in the morning, well, the inner circle you will meet in the morning – they have a little more patience’ Combeferre throws over his shoulder.  On the horizon, the sun is beginning to rise, so the morning isn’t really that far away.

‘Though are all equally excited,’ Jehan says to Grantaire with a wink, ‘Enjolras really just wants to see what you have brought with you – he’s a bit touch-y F Section sent you.  Careful of being too British around him – he takes insults to France personally’ he continues with a small laugh

‘It was a nightmare to get him to learn English.’ Combeferre adds again to the conversation

‘You didn’t have to teach him,’ Jehan grumbles under his breath.  Grantaire has a little chuckle at that, which Jehan joins in on.  Combeferre misses the man’s comment and turns around to look at the two behind him quizzically before shrugging and facing the front again.

‘Enjolras sounds like a barrel of laughs’ Grantaire says eventually

‘He has his moments,’ Combeferre muses, stopping in front of a kind of shed structure on the edge of a crop, ‘We are staying here tonight, Enjolras is waiting inside’

A man walks out of the building and speaks, voice strong and commanding, walking tall with shoulders back and tense, ‘He is waiting right here’

‘Enjolras!’ Jehan skips up, putting his side of the crate down, and kisses the man on both cheeks

‘Bonjour Jehan,’ he smiles, some of the tension leaving his posture, before turning to Combeferre with an outstretched hand, ‘Combeferre, good to see you got back safely.’  Combeferre claps his spare hand against the top of Enjolras’ arm.

‘This is Grantaire,’ he says to his friend

‘Call me R’

Enjolras turns to the newcomer and looks at him for the first time.  It’s also the first time that Grantaire sees him in the growing dawn light.

He is beautiful.  Incandescent.  The yellow light of the rising sun falls on his hair and makes it shine golden, curls falling delicately around his neck and shoulders.  His eyes are lit and are the brightest blue Grantaire has ever seen.  Looking into the Enjolras eyes is like swimming.  Like Combeferre, Enjolras is as tall as Grantaire, though Combeferre definitely has the broader shoulders.

Everything about Enjolras screams strength – he holds out a hand for Grantaire and the handshake is firm, from a person used to asserting dominance, perhaps needing to exaggerate strength in the face of those who merely see his outward features.  The hand is smooth, unlike Grantaire’s calloused and rough skin. 

Grantaire’s artist hands itch to draw this man.  To draw every inch of him.

 _To see every inch of him._  

He definitely had to stop thinking like that right now.

Just by looking at the man Grantaire can tell why people naturally follow him.  He truly is angelic; he is Michael, commander of the Holy Host; he is Liberty Leading The People, arm raised high and pushing ever on.  Grantaire on the battlefield had seen good leaders, and bad leaders, and cruel leaders, and timid leaders - he had seen men trying to get a group to follow them and men that had men naturally gravitate towards them, as if eminating an aura around them, drawing men in.  Enjolras was one such man.  He stood above the rest, seemingly a foot taller just by his mere presense.  If the Brass could bottle what the man standing before Grantaire had, collect and distribute his God-given power they might actually have a chance of winning this war.

For Grantaire, that was scarily close to optimism.

He understands why the Amis are together and why they will follow this man to their deaths.  _I will follow this man back into Hell._ The thought terrifies Grantaire.

A sick feeling rises in Grantaire’s stomach to contribute to the myriad of emotions he has lost himself in.  _This is a complication,_ he thinks, _no-one told me Enjolras was like this.  I feel Javert should have said something when I signed up to this._

Enjolras pulls a face and looks down at their hands – Grantaire still has a firm grasp.  The Brit notices and lets go with a small embarrassed gasp. ‘Sorry’

Enjolras simply cocks an eyebrow and turns to Combeferre, nodding his head at the crate the three men brought with them. ‘This from the British?’

‘Yes’ Grantaire answers – Enjolras looks at him again with those eyes.  _Don’t ever look away_. ‘New handguns and some Italian weapons we procured along the way.  Stocked up on German killers’

‘They are worth more than that’ Enjolras snaps at him, ‘These weapons can save French lives’

‘And end others...’ Grantaire mutters

Enjolras just narrows his eyes at him and tears his stare away to talk to Jehan, ‘We will have to thank Section F for their assistance’

‘I’ll send them something in the morning’

‘Good.  Get some sleep Jehan.  We leave for Paris in a few hours’

Jehan gives Enjolras another kiss on the cheek and goes inside the shed. If anything, from his preliminary assessment, Grantaire has seen that Jehan is a very tactile person.  Enjolras continues, ‘Combeferre, we should talk to RF as well.  They will want to confirm Grantaire’s’ – Grantaire ignores the whooshing feeling in his gut at the sound of Enjolras saying his name – ‘arrival’

Grantaire takes a moment to really hear what Enjolras says, ‘So you’re with RF too?’

‘A number of us are,’ Enjolras replies quickly before entering into a hushed conversation with Combeferre. Grantaire stands to the side, transferring weight on each of his feet.  He starts to recognise how tired he is feeling – it’s been a long and draining day.  He accidently yawns a little louder than is polite and Enjolras sends another annoyed glance at Grantaire.

 _This can’t end well_ , Grantaire thinks.

He isn’t swimming in those blue eyes, eyes that look into him and through him every time they turn in Grantaire’s direction – he is drowning.

Combeferre breaks the silence, ‘We should all get some sleep, I think.  We should be safe here for the night,’ he adds when Enjolras turns to him and draw a breath to say something – Combeferre knows him well enough to know that he is going to suggest someone stay up to keep watch. ‘Grantaire, we will take you to meet everyone in Paris.  Rest.  You as well, my friend,’ he says, turning to Enjolras.  A silent conversation occurs between them, which causes Combeferre to let out a small huff that Grantaire translates as “annoyed”.

‘You don’t have to tell me twice,’ Grantaire says, dipping his head at Combeferre, who is smirking slightly at Grantaire’s comment and Enjolras’ glare. Grantaire gives the same gesture, albeit without making eye contact, to Enjolras and goes inside the building, leaving the two men to finish their hushed discussion.

He finds a comfortable spot in the shed – which is functioning as a kind of barn – takes off his jacket to use as a pillow and curls up to attempt sleep.  The arrangement is eerily similar in many aspects to Belgium.  Grantaire takes two deep breaths.  It is not Belgium anymore he isn’t in Belgium and neither is Bahorel and hopefully Marius has been moved on as well.

Grantaire is still awake when the two men come inside a few minutes later, both going over to the same area of the barn and laying a few metres apart.  Grantaire can hear some initial squirming and rearranging of limbs until each man is comfortable.  Soon after no more sounds are heard, aside from the whistling of a breeze blowing through a crack in the wall, Grantaire drifts off to sleep.  He wakes in a sweat, crying out as he sits up from his nightmare, looking around in the hope he woke no-one in his terror.  When he cannot see anyone else move, he slowly lowers himself back on to the floor, and curls up tightly, wiping the tears from his face.  He starts the process of falling asleep once more.  It’s all part of the nightly routine.

He doesn’t notice Enjolras’ open eyes, watching until he is sure Grantaire has fallen back asleep, constantly tossing and turning as another dream takes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the boys is scary. I really hope to not make Hugo turn in his grave too much...


	10. Chapter 10

Enjolras is first up in the morning, followed closely by Combeferre. They get around twenty minutes to themselves to look at the supplies brought by Grantaire in better light before they hear Jehan begin to move around - a sure sign that the poet is waking; he sleeps deeply and totally still otherwise.

Enjolras is keen to move to Paris as soon as possible, though Combeferre manages to talk him around to letting Grantaire sleep for a little longer – everyone in the group knows how Enjolras hates being away from the city and away from the centre of the group, at the centre of his carefully constructed and maintained web.  Combeferre especially understands how Enjolras needs to really feel the city around him; being away from it for too long makes his best friend edgy, more so than usual, and irritable.  Enjolras needs to be connected to Paris, needs to have the life of the city pulsing through his veins.  It takes the sophistry of Combeferre to convince someone like Enjolras to postpone his convictions.

Enjolras is inclined to agree with Combeferre after listening to his arguments, unwilling to tell Combeferre that he was already leaning towards allowing Grantaire his rest, remembering his face, slick with sweat and the fear plastered across it as he sat up during the night, crying out.

They don’t have to wait much longer as soon they see Grantaire rub at his eyes and sit up.  Though, they don’t have to know that Grantaire has been lying awake for hours, listening to their surroundings and to their hushed conversations.

He turns to look at the three men watching him from one side of the barn.  _Enjolras is still gorgeous and real_ , he thinks, laughing dryly, ‘Forgot where I was for a second there.  What time is it?’

‘Eight in the morning’ Combeferre informs him as he cleans his glasses on the front of his shirt and places them back on his face.

Grantaire has a sudden urge to draw Combeferre as well as Enjolras.  Where Enjolras is hard, like he is made of marble, Combeferre has a more open look and softer features – intelligence and logic personified, mixed in with kindness and humility.

From what he has seen so far, from the body language both men exude in addition to the SOE reports, there is a trust and confidence between Combeferre and Enjolras that can only come from long acquaintance and friendship; Grantaire imagines that Combeferre is the man who keeps his leader from over-reaching, stops him from becoming a modern-day Icarus – Combeferre is a calm voice of reason, though with the same belief in the cause of the Resistance.

‘We should be goings’ says Enjolras, looking at Grantaire like he shouldn’t have slept as long as he did.  It was probably the most Grantaire had slept in a while though if the soldier came to think of it so he didn’t regret his extended rest.  Even whilst staring at _that_ look on _that_ face.

Grantaire rises, straightening his clothes slightly and shaking two hands through his bed-hair.  A couple of pieces of hay fall out of the short curls making Grantaire grimace.  Jehan walks up to him and pulls another piece out.  _Of course,_ Grantaire thinks, _He stands there looking like a Da Vinci masterpiece and I have hay in my hair like some Middle Ages peasant_.  Grantaire clears his throat and smiles gently at Jehan as he flicks the offending plant material away, ‘Lead the way’

‘We have a car’ Combeferre says with a small smirk, gesturing at the vehicle Grantaire completely missed in the daze he was in when he entered the building, ‘It would take too long to walk to the city’

 

 

***

 

 

They reach Paris within the hour, Enjolras insisting he drive; Combeferre settles into the passenger seat with Grantaire and Jean Prouvaire across the back.  Arriving in Paris and continuing through some of the outer suburbs, they pull up out the front of a block of flats, not unlike Grantaire’s own in London, though with distinct Parisian architecture. 

Enjolras turns in the driver’s seat to face Grantaire, who is sitting in the back with Jehan, ‘You will be staying with one of the others in our group - Courfeyrac’

‘You can drop off some of your things from the supply crate here – Courf and the rest are waiting at our usual meeting place so we will introduce you there’ Jehan continues, getting out of the car.  Grantaire does the same, gets his things from the truck, and follows him to the front door. ‘Here – your new keys to the apartment,’ he says, handing two keys to Grantaire.  Jehan points at the first which Grantaire uses, entering a hallway with stairs in the middle.

‘Four of Les Amis live here.’  Jehan gestures to the first door on the left, ‘Two in that apartment, Combeferre on the floor above us – same floor that you now live on – and then obviously Courfeyrac.  You’d think we all live here though sometimes.  You’ll meet them all, don’t worry’

The two make their way to the stairs and ascend, Jehan taking the steps two at a time to reach the first landing.  He walks straight ahead from the top of the stairs to the door directly in front of them. ‘This is your apartment’ Grantaire uses the second key to open this door and swinging it open, again following Jehan inside.

The apartment is a reasonable size, especially for one in Paris and Grantaire muses that this Courfeyrac must not be all that poor to afford to stay in a place like this.  Though, with the clothes that he has seen on the three Amis he has already met and considering a few of them are SOE on top of living in Paris, all of them appear to be well-off.

There are four rooms – two bedrooms, the living area extending into a kitchen and a bathroom.  _It looks like the apartment of a young university student_ , Grantaire thinks, _nothing to suggest a prominent member of a vocal anti-German group resides here now joined by an ex-soldier British spy._

‘Your room is the second door on the right,’ Grantaire is told, as Jehan walks towards the door he described and opens it, gesturing for Grantaire to enter. ‘Drop your things in there and we will go back to Enjolras and Combeferre.  Enjolras may get restless having to sit there idly’ Jehan adds with an eye roll and a small sigh.

‘I take it we wouldn’t want that?’ Grantaire asks and he goes into his bedroom and places his items at the end of the bed - his bed.  He takes the handgun stored in his bag out and tucks it into the pocket on the inside of his jacket.  With it, he feels disgustingly complete – it’s too dangerous to risk being without it, and Grantaire is too dangerous with it. 

_The conundrum of war.  We shoot at them, they shoot back and we shoot at them again._

‘We wouldn’t want that at all’

 

 

***

 

 

They get in the car with a comment from Enjolras about how long it took them to return and pull away from the curb, heading further into the heart of the city.  They pass L’Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower; Grantaire makes a mental note to take the time to draw them one day when he has the chance.

Jehan sees him taking in the monuments, ‘Beautiful aren’t they?  I love Paris,’ he says airily, smile on his face as he closes his eyes as if to hold the images in his mind.  At this moment they pass three men in their grey German uniforms, swastikas displayed proudly on their arm, sitting out the front of a café as the waitress brings them coffee.  Jehan still has his eyes closed and misses them.

‘Some things about it are beautiful’ Enjolras adds, his tone practically dripping with disdain. 

Everything about the image -  the natural way in which the soldiers sit and drink at a café, Germans in Paris, the dull grey of the uniforms against the colour and architecture of France, the blood red of the armbands -  is wrong.  Grantaire’s brain screams it at him.  This is the enemy in a whole new way, a way that Grantaire has never seen it before – it’s a stark reminder of why he is here.

They seem to reach their destination in a similar café – the hole in the wall type place that one so often finds in Paris.  It’s inconspicuous and simple, down a small alleyway and off the larger streets of the city.  It has ‘Musain’ painted across a sign above the door, the paint chipped and cracked.  It’s the type of place that is either declared dilapidated or well-loved depending on your viewpoint.

_The perfect place for Les Amis to meet._

Inside is dark and calm, not many people there at this time – seemingly the quiet café acts as a bar as well and Grantaire can picture men arriving later in the day to drink on the stools along the bar table.  He takes stock of the bottles of liquor along the back wall and decides that this is the kind of place for him to fit in comfortably.

The man behind the bar is cleaning a glass and nods at Enjolras as he enters, a gesture that is returned, and a young brunette waitress blows them all a kiss from where she sits at a table reading the newspaper.  Grantaire swears he sees Combeferre blush.

The waitress stands and joins the three of them, giving Jehan and Combeferre a kiss on the cheek and smiles at Grantaire.  She is slim and gorgeous, a skirt flowing around her knees and accentuating her tiny waist.  Her hair is held in waves in the fashion of the time, dark brown and lush, with a bright piece of fabric tied around her head and knotted at the nape of her neck.

Enjolras, Combeferre, Jehan and the woman know exactly where they are going and walk straight through the room to a door on the back wall.

As they reach the door, Grantaire can hear shouting and loud laughing on the other side.  Enjolras sighs upon hearing it, but opens the door nonetheless and lets the other three through.

‘Jehan! Combeferre! Enjolras!’ a male voice shouts above the rest as its owner rushes up to kiss both cheeks of the three Amis.  Enjolras seems to force back a smile, pursing his lips in what would pass as frustration if it reached his eyes, trying to remain composed and serious in the face of this energy.  ‘And you must be Grantaire!’ he says as he reaches the British man, giving him the same two kisses, ‘I’m Courfeyrac’ he smiles and Grantaire can’t help but smile back, despite the overly warm welcome – usually touching like that is uncomfortable, but Grantaire gets the sense that this new man, Courfeyrac, is like that.

‘So I’m living with you then I take it?’ Grantaire asks, somewhat arbitrarily

Courfeyrac nods happily and winks, ‘We are going to have a great time’

‘Courf, move so Grantaire can be introduced to everyone’ Jehan laughs, pulling Courfeyrac away from in front of Grantaire by his hand.  Courfeyrac obliges to go, letting out a huff that sounds very put-out, and stands next to the other man, ruffling Jehan’s hair. Jehan elbows him in return.

‘My friends,’ Enjolras says in the new hush that has fallen over the room, ‘This is Grantaire,’ Grantaire ignores the rush in his stomach as Enjolras mentions his name again and gives an awkward wave to the Amis standing in front of him.  That’s as far as Enjolras’ introduction goes.

Courfeyrac takes charge then, rolling his eyes at their leader, and introduces Grantaire to the gathering one by one – to Feuilly, a fellow artist and once of the only members of the group that does not attend university; Bossuet, who spills the glass of water he holds in his hand when he walks into the corner of a table making his way over to Grantaire and Courfeyrac; to Eponine, the waitress from the front of the Musain; and to Claquesous, the barman who quietly entered the room not long after Enjolras had shut the door.

‘There is one other who isn’t here,’ Courfeyrac explains with a smirk and turns to Eponine who is glaring at him, ‘Where is your dear brother today, Ponine?’

‘I don’t know, and I’m not sure I want to.’

Courfeyrac turns back to Grantaire, ‘Gavroche is Eponine’s little brother.  He isn’t officially an Ami, I have to say, but we can’t keep him away.  He wants to help.’

‘He’s too young,’ Eponine counters, clearly unhappy that Gavroche is part of a conversation about a militant and dangerous group of Resistance fighters.

‘He’s not too young to care.  Or to fight...’ Enjolras contributes, his tone making Eponine cross her arms and stare at him angrily, yet she doesn’t say any more on the matter.

Every one of the Amis is warm and friendly, and Grantaire sees signs of the bond that they all share.  It is clear they have all known each other for long periods of time and they are all extremely close, an easiness in all their interactions.  If anyone, Claquesous is most on the outer, leaving the room after his introduction to Grantaire presumably to return to behind the bar and man the front of the establishment.

Even Enjolras relaxes slightly in the presence of his friends.  Grantaire finds himself smiling simply at the way they all get along and the way that they want to include Grantaire in their discussions – hardly any of which centre on the war around them.  In the confines of this room and amongst these friends, there is more than just the war.  There is life.

At some point Eponine too leaves the room as well and goes back out the front, coming back with bread and wine for them to share as the day grows older, eventually venturing out a second time for more drink and some more substantial food.  Grantaire helps himself to the wine, almost finishing a bottle on his own. 

Grantaire learns about each of them – what they study at university, how Feuilly earns his living as a street-artist - when Grantaire informs him that he too is an artist, Feuilly offers to take him to Montmartre to which he naturally agrees.  Few things compare to seeing Paris from Montmartre, from beside the Sacre Coeur and Grantaire wants to see it for himself instead of just in pictures and paintings done by others.

His thoughts about Enjolras and Combeferre are confirmed as he is told that they have been friends since they were children; and they all tease Courfeyrac about his latest romantic exploits.

When they finally begin discussing the war, Grantaire steers clear of describing in detail his time in Belgium, though he isn’t afraid to tell them what he thinks of the war.

‘It’s a waste; a waste of human life and of humanity. Much of the fighting is hopeless – nobody gets anywhere, nobody moves.  It’s stalemate.  We are all locked in this constant fighting, perpetually dying and being killed.  At the end of the day, it’s another day over and then it all just starts again’ He takes a large mouthful of red wine.  Everyone is as quiet as when Grantaire first walked in, all solemn and serious.  None of them are soldiers and none have seen the trenches or the Front.  Their Front has always been in their home, and they have been fighting other battles.

‘So you think that we can do nothing here?’ Enjolras demands of Grantaire.  Combeferre closes his eyes and takes a breath, seeming to reach towards Enjolras as he passes to stand opposite Grantaire’s chair.  He misses his friend’s sleeve and his fist closes around air as he drops it heavily to his lap.  His other hand removes his glasses to clean them again, as he opens his eyes to fix them on his leader.

‘Enjolras--’ he begins, to be cut off by the soldier

‘I think that your reach is severely limited.’  The wine gives him strength to return the stare of the Amis’ fearless captain and match it in kind.  It is the strongest Grantaire has felt for a long while.

And looking into those eyes makes him feel more alive than he has in a long while.

‘And then we should do nothing, is that your belief?’ 

‘I have no belief beyond whatever work is done in one place will be negated in another.  You kill five of the enemy and the enemy will kill five of you.  It’s a circle, Enjolras, a vicious cycle that cannot be broken by any small number of men and women.  It’s up to those higher on the food chain.  And they don’t want us to stop fighting yet.  So they feed us through the machine, and spit us back out again.’  Grantaire remembers a soldier from the Great War that was declared invalid for saying almost the same thing; a great mind that was silenced so that the fighting could continue.  It makes him feel sick and fills him with new rage.

The rest of the group sits back and watches Enjolras and Grantaire, the stare causing tension for all in the room.  Courfeyrac coughs only to be hit by Jehan, intrigued that someone is denying Enjolras in this way.

Enjolras scoffs at the cynic’s comment, pointing at each member of the group as he mentions them, ‘Jehan sends out messages every day across the country to groups like us, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and I communicate to those around us in person.  Our numbers are great and we have the ability to co-ordinate.  We are not just a small number of men and women as you say we are.  Eponine stays around the Germans and gets them talking using her methods’ – Grantaire can infer what those methods are, looking at the attractive waitress, who has her eyes focussed on the wine in her glass.  Combeferre comes behind her and squeezes her shoulder.  She smiles weakly up at him and finishes her glass, sitting up straight in her chair to watch her leader. Enjolras continues obliviously – ‘She brings vital information back to us that we can use.  We even pass it on to _your_ Government! Bossuet procures firearms for us; we have slowly stockpiled weapons to arm some of the groups we are in contact with in preparation for a time we can strike the Nazi occupiers.  We publish and distribute pamphlets by the thousand.  Feuilly with his art can hide in plain sight, he’s just another artist when he is working; our word reaches all across France - and obviously to England since they deigned us important enough to send you here.’

Enjolras scoffs again at the thought of Grantaire being any help to them at all, ‘We save lives.  We fight for France and for her people.  Many may die in the fight for freedom but that does not mean that we stop – it should give us the courage and drive to continue!  Or what?  Their deaths mean nothing?  We cannot believe that they are dying for nothing.  It’s an insult to them and to their memory.  They die for a cause – what will you die for, Grantaire?’ he finishes.

Grantaire simply raises his glass in a mock toast and drains it, a gesture not lost on Enjolras who stands up to sit at a table in the corner to read through the latest draft of their pamphlet, a scowl on his face.  Grantaire cannot decide which is more profound, the silence that Enjolras in now keeping – seemingly too angry to form words – or the silence of the rest of the group, stunned that someone riled Enjolras so.

 

 

***                                        

 

 

They all treat Grantaire like he is one of them, their interactions only getting more familiar as they converse and exchange idle chit-chat, with the exception of Enjolras who is still bristling from the earlier confrontation, though has definitely calmed down, evident by the pensive expression that has now formed on his face.

 _I am one of them now,_ Grantaire reminds himself looking at the angelic face that will inevitably lead him once more into battle.  _I am an Ami.  I am a Frenchman.  This is the role I play._

After hours talking to all of them and laughing, the morning slipping into afternoon and sneaking into darkness, all of them warming to this newcomer and his sense of humour, he thinks that it may not be that hard of a role to play. 

 _Even if I can’t believe in the success of their cause, I can believe in them._ He turns his eyes momentarily to Enjolras, who is once again in a hushed conversation with Combeferre, joined by Courfeyrac.

Enjolras looks up from his conversation to meet Grantaire’s eyes for the first time since he stalked away.  He nods once, acknowledging the new member, before focusing again on his current conversation.

_I can believe in him._

 


	11. Chapter 11

Throughout the day they all become more and more inebriated, Grantaire revelling at how long it has been since he was last properly drunk – all except Enjolras and Combeferre, who are still talking at a table in the corner.  Courfeyrac left them to their discussion around two hours previously, joining the rest of the Amis in their drinking.  Every now and then Grantaire would catch Combeferre looking at the group ruefully, making eye contact with someone and raising his shoulders in a tiny shrug – he yearned to join the others, yet remained with Enjolras, allowing his friend and leader to continue with his undivided attention.

Grantaire can hardly find the strength or energy to drag is eyes away from the blonde man – from the way the golden curls fall around his neck and face and how he keeps tucking them back with a swish of delicate fingers; from the curve of his shoulders as he leas across the table to whisper something to Combeferre; from the light in his eyes as he doubtlessly talks of the ways in which they are going to expel Jerry from their homeland.

‘Enjolras!  Have some fun – there isn’t enough of it going ‘round these days!’ Courfeyrac begs him

‘Courfeyrac, we have classes in the morning’ is all the blonde man says before bidding everyone a good night and leaving the café.

Grantaire watches his back as he brushes out of the room, a hollow feeling in his chest.  He suddenly feels much colder than he did two minutes ago. He slings an arm over Courfeyrac’s shoulder, ‘Mate, I’m tired – should we leave?’

‘If we must’ Courfeyrac replies, sounding very put out as he sighs loudly and musses the other man’s hair, Mes amis, adieu!‘ he shouts to the group, with a flourish of his hand and a small bow to those remaining at the table.  Jehan flits up and gives both men a kiss on each cheek, before sitting back down with Combeferre, and Courfeyrac and Grantaire turn to leave the same way as Enjolras.

Eponine speaks up, causing R and Courfeyrac to clumsily spin as one, with Grantaire’s arm still draped over the other man’s shoulder, to listen to what she has to say.

 ‘I should also go – there are people... um... expecting me.’  Her eyes dart over to Combeferre who gives a little nod and a smile, that Eponine returns, and threads an arm through Courfeyrac’s.  The three walk out onto the street together, connected.  Eponine waves at them as she turns to walk up the street in the opposite direction and blows them a kiss.

‘Is she...?’ Grantaire begins to ask

Courfeyrac silences him with a hand, ‘We don’t really talk about it.’  Grantaire presses his lips together in a line and nods.

_War is an atrocity on many levels._

***

 

 

The walk to Courfeyrac’s - and now Grantaire’s, as he has to keep reminding himself - flat is more of a stumble than either of them would have hoped or would care to admit.  It takes about double the time it should to get from the Musain to there but they eventually do make it back safe and sound and both in one piece.  As they enter the building, Courfeyrac points out the same door that Jehan did earlier, now giving Grantaire names and faces to match the doors, ‘Eponine lives there when she is actually home, she shares with Bossuet.  I like it when she’s here – means he’s less likely to burn the place down’

They make their way up the stairs and once they get into their own flat, Grantaire salutes Courfeyrac and heads to his own bedroom, falling onto the bed and kicking off his shoes.  Apparently his life in Paris isn’t going to be all that different to his life in London.  Grantaire chuckles to himself.

_Don’t think this is exactly that Brigadier Javert had in mind when he sent me here._

He thinks on what happened today – the people he met, the wonderful optimistic Amis.   How they laugh and smile and enjoy themselves in the face of the Germans, how they plot and plan and believe so utterly that they can change the course of the war.  Grantaire closes his eyes and feels a lump growing in his throat.  He imagines Marius and Bahorel amongst Les Amis.  Marius, the brave and gentle man who would fit into the group so well – his belief and light shining with the many bright stars of the group; Bahorel, the laughing bear of a man who would drink and sing with them all and fight tooth and nail for their cause _._

 _Either man would be better than me_ , Grantaire thinks, _why me?_   Grantaire can imagine Marius being so nervous around Eponine  with her easy smiles and passionate eyes.  He remembers nights where Marius would grow red cheeked, blushing, when Grantaire and Bahorel would joke about how women like a man in uniform.  Never was a big one with the ladies was their poor dear American.  Eponine would eat him alive.

Grantaire almost laughs out loud again at the images in his mind of Marius and Eponine and how excruciatingly awkward a situation it would be.  In every image, all the Amis are there, laughing together and always joined by Bahorel.  Bahorel would laugh louder than the rest, seeing his comrade in action and witnessing the truth of all Marius’ stories.

He finds solace in the thought that when Bahorel is well again, and when ( _if_ , his treacherous mind reminds him) Marius survives the war, he will bring them here to Paris to meet these Amis.

_Please, let them live._

He strips himself slowly and tiredly of his clothes until he is left wearing only his underwear as he crawls under the covers, shimmying down in the bed. _It’s a nice bed._

The length and weight of the day finally hits him and he falls asleep, only waking once in the night from his nightmares.

 

 

***

 

 

He wakes at five in the morning, his body clock still being run by military schedules.  He is more hung-over than he remembers being in a long time; whether the war has helped him by forcing him to drink less, or hindered him by causing his hangovers when he does drink to be worse, Grantaire cannot decide through the haze of his headache.

He slowly peels himself out from under the covers, thankful at least for the fact that it is slightly too early in the morning for the sun to be up and pulls on a pair of pants, going through the habitual motions of strapping a knife to his ankle as well. His training certainly drills some things into him.

_Small mercies._

Making his way to the kitchen, he realises that he has no idea what it holds.  He doesn’t know where to find food, cutlery, glasses – to him it’s simply a maze of cupboard doors and drawers.  His first priority would usually be coffee, however he was sure that there wouldn’t be much coffee for the both of them in the house with the rationing only feeding Courfeyrac for the moment; his priorities rearranged to have water at the top.

He finds the glasses in the second cupboard he opens, attempting to open them as quietly as possible as not to disturb his roommate, though questioning whether by opening them slowly he is making any less noise than would normally be made.  He decides it is much too early for those kinds of philosophical questions.

Grantaire cringes when he turns the tap only to have the pipes hammer twice and the tap to violently screech when being turned on and off.  Getting a glass of water wasn’t his best idea despite his headache loudly opposing that thought.  No movement can be heard coming from Courfeyrac’s room so Grantaire is pretty sure he gets away with it.  He downs his glass in one and is immensely grateful when the pipes don’t make any more noise when he risks refilling.

Grantaire shuffles over to the small dining table in front of the kitchen and heavily drops on one of the four chairs.  He places the glass on the table, followed soon after by his head when he notices how cool the top of the wood is.  His forehead is still on the wood, hair falling all around and haloing his skull when the front door of the flat is unlocked.

His head shoots up and entire body tenses in readiness at the sound.  His immediate reflex, honed by months on the front line, is fight and he mentally and physically prepares himself for the eventuality, quickly forgetting the pain in his head.

As the door opens and figure enters, Grantaire springs from his chair and around the table; pulling the body through the door, spinning it around and pining it by the neck to the back of the with his forearm, causing the front door to slam shut.  He lifts his leg to easily reach his knife and places the knife against the neck of the intruder, all in one swift fluid motion.

He stares straight into the eyes of Combeferre.

Grantaire releases him like he has been burned, dropping the knife and letting it clatter on the floor, looking shocked and appalled at his actions while Combeferre lets out a cough and rubs his neck, it slowly becoming more and more red.  He pushes his glasses up his nose, them having been knocked out of place by the force of Grantaire’s body colliding with him.

Watching the man, Grantaire feels guilt building inside him, welling under the surface like it’s going to burst out.  He attacked an ally. 

One of the Amis, Courfeyrac’s friend, had innocently come through the door; totally unarmed and quietly as not to wake his friend; posing no threat to either of the men inside the flat and Grantaire has reacted like that.  He had attacked him and was prepared to kill him if needs be.  His mind had instantly made the conclusion that it needed to react violently – that it needed to react at all.  The idea repulses Grantaire and he runs two worried and shaking hands through his tangled hair.

‘Combeferre, I am so... I didn’t mean... I thought...’ Grantaire aborts all the sentences.  None of them sound enough to excuse his actions.

Combeferre watches Grantaire raking hand though his hair and look on the verge of tears, ‘It’s okay, Grantaire, it’s nothing.  R, it’s okay, I’m fine – you just startled me’ he reaches out to Grantaire to grab his arm, a gesture meant to be reassuring but Grantaire flinches away from the touch

‘It’s not okay.  I don’t know why I did that.  It was a reflex. Why is that a reflex?’  he questions, his voice rising in volume and pitch as he becomes more anxious, ‘Why the fuck did I do that?  You’re my friend.  I’m meant to be your friend!’

‘Grantaire, take a breath.  I’m fine.  It’s just what you have been trained to do. You are a soldier’ Combeferre says, in English to match the language Grantaire doesn’t even realise he has reverted to in his panic, ‘Grantaire?’

Grantaire looks Combeferre in the eye for the first time since recognising him, ‘Combeferre, je suis desolé, vraiment, je suis tellement desolé’ he says, switching back to Combeferre’s native tongue.  He takes the breath Combeferre recommended.  It loosens a small amount of the tightness in his chest. ‘I didn’t think you would be coming through the door.  I didn’t know who was going to be here so early. You had a key’ Grantaire says, recalling hearing the lock unclick, ‘Of course, you had a key, I’m so stupid! Fuck!’

‘You were just being safe, Grantaire.  No rational person would think that a friend as coming through the door at this time of the morning – I was awake and hear the pipes so I knew someone must have been awake over here.  Figured I’d keep whoever it was company for a while,’ Combeferre says with a slight smile, walking over to wear the knife lays on the floor and stopping to pick it up.

‘Some company I am’ Grantaire replies, eyes fixed on his feet

‘Well, you’re not boring, that’s for sure’

Grantaire looks up at Combeferre and both men let out a small laugh.  Combeferre reaches out to hand Grantaire’s knife back which is quickly taken up and replaced in its sheath.  The same hand then clasps Grantaire’s shoulder and squeezes.  The mood lightening a little, they can hear small bangs and a quiet cry of pain from Courfeyrac’s bedroom.  Combeferre gives Grantaire a knowing smile and heads over to Courfeyrac’s bedroom door, knocking once and opening it a crack

‘You okay in here?’ he asks, overly cheerfully for what is now six in the morning

‘No.  I stubbed my toe.  I hate you’

‘That’s what I get for showing a little care is it?’

‘Yes.  Grantaire awake yet?’

‘Yeah, we’ve been talking for a little while you continued to drool on your pillow,’ Combeferre says, glancing over his shoulder at Grantaire. 

He doesn’t mention Grantaire’s reaction to his entrance.  Combeferre decides that it’s not something that needs to be said to anyone else.

Grantaire really likes Combeferre.  Guilt rushes up in Grantaire’s stomach again. He takes another couple of deep breaths as Combeferre turns his attention back to his half-awake friend, ‘So you don’t need any help in here?  Can dress yourself I assume these days?’

‘Tais-toi, Combeferre, shut up.  You alright out there? Bonding away over your ability to be conscious at unnatural hours?’

‘We’re fine.  You have a shower or something and we’ll buy some bread, okay?’

‘That thing I said about hating you?  I take it back.  I love you, ‘Ferre’

‘Yeah, yeah, I know, Courf,’ he says affectionately, closing the door again.  He spins on his heel and clasps his hands together, ‘So, food.  Let’s find some.  You English don’t make bread like we do and there are about three hundred different cheeses for you to try.  Can’t play at French unless you know your cheeses,’ Combeferre says with a smirk playing at his lips.

‘Food sounds incredible’


	12. Chapter 12

The bakery is only around the corner from the flat and Grantaire smells the aroma of fresh bread and pastry growing stronger the closer they get to the small shop.  Combeferre obviously knows the baker well and as soon as he and Grantaire walk into the shop, announced by the small bell above the door, the baker dives into conversation; greeting Combeferre and asking how he has been and why didn’t he buy any bread the last couple of days.

Combeferre laughs kind-heartedly, joking about how much he was missed and whether it was the money or the conversation that had been more notably absent.  The baker replies with a wink that of course it was the conversation!  He turns to Grantaire, surveying him, trying to figure him out with the eyes of a man who has been working behind the counter in a shop and getting to know customers for many years.

‘Who is this newcomer?  Haven’t seen you around before – and that’s saying something because I know almost everyone!’ He says with a laugh, sticking a hand out for Grantaire to shake, ‘I’m Phillipe’

‘I’m Grantaire – a friend of Combeferre’s from outside the city.  Just moved actually!’

‘God, why move to Paris?  Crawling with all kinds of vermin, and not just the rats’

 ‘Well, I, ah, wanted to see for myself.  Paris is more interesting than where I’m from anyway,’ Grantaire says

‘And where is that exactly?  Your accent is a little strange...’

‘Let’s just say I’m not from Paris’

‘Okay,’ the baker says, hands in the air almost as if in surrender, ‘I don’t mean to pry.  I only sell the bread.’  Combeferre smiles at him and hands over his food-rationing ticket – enough for one loaf.  Combeferre is handed two. ‘To welcome your friend to our fair city!’  Grantaire thanks him profusely, his stomach grumbling just from the smell of the bakery and the thought of eating the warm bread.

 _Apparently, rationing isn’t as strict as in England,_ Grantaire thinks happily.  That fact certainly makes this whole venture into the unknown all the more appealing to the Englishman, who has been living with strict rationing, quickly followed by military diets.

As they leave the bakery with a wave to Phillipe, Combeferre tears off part of a loaf and passes it to Grantaire, the white insides steaming as they are revealed to the crisp morning air.

The food is, indeed, incredible.  Just as Combeferre had promised; the English just don’t make bread like the French – Grantaire was offered an example last night at the Musain and further proof lay in his hands.  Combeferre chuckles at the look on Grantaire’s face, tearing off some for himself and popping it in his mouth, it almost melts on contact with his tongue.  He thinks of what Grantaire must have eaten during his months in the trenches – he knew of Grantaire’s military history, having read up on him through the files sent from England. 

This man was a soldier; a good one.  He saved lives and he took lives.  The look of contentedness on the soldier’s face as he savoured the mouthful of warm bread made Combeferre feel an odd sort of pity for the other man, a pity that made Combeferre want to grasp Grantaire firmly and tell him that the Allies would succeed, that his service had not been for nothing; the kinds of things that Enjolras talked about daily – that the suffering wasn’t for naught, that the people would unite and rise and the war would be won.  But Combeferre could see the slight stoop in Grantaire’s posture from carrying the weight of the packs, could see the lines across his forehead from frowning and the lines around his eyes from squinting into the sun too often; he noticed the small roll of one shoulder that Grantaire would do occasionally, trying to relax the ache in his arm caused by the bullet that had torn through it; he knew that Grantaire had a knife attached to his ankle and reflexes like a cat, the result of having to use them in violence all too often.

Combeferre knows already that any attempt by him to convince Grantaire of the obvious merits of their work here would fall on cynical ears, like Enjolras’ speech had last night – not deaf ears, but ears that have been jaded by blood and dirt.  He can understand if Grantaire needs time to adjust to the passion of Les Amis. 

Grantaire has seen things that Combeferre, and all the others, have only read about. 

Grantaire turns to look at Combeferre self-consciously, having seen the man studying him out of the corner of his eye.  Combeferre pushes his glasses up his nose with a finger, smiles weakly at Grantaire, as if guilty at having been caught staring, and hands him some more bread.

They return to the flat to see Courfeyrac padding around, now fully dressed, with Eponine sitting at the dining table.  She has a small smile for Combeferre and Grantaire as they walk in the door.  The questioning look that Combeferre flashes her is not lost on Grantaire, nor is the answer in the form of a quirk of her lips – a sheepish gesture, one that knows the reaction it will cause from experience. Combeferre lets out a small breath of air and walks over to her, passing the second loaf of bread to an eager Courf as he rushes towards the smell of food.

Grantaire sits in the same chair he vacated earlier in the morning, across from Eponine, and sees how delicately Combeferre lifts her wrist from where it rests on the table and examines it, sliding the sleeve slightly higher up her arm to reveal the purple and blue of fresh bruises.  Grantaire sees a flash of red and balls his hands into tight fists, his fingers digging into his hands; Combeferre’s eyebrows pulled together in a pained expression as he softly runs a finger across the discolouration.  Eponine, seeing the look on the blond man’s face, lifts her hand from Combeferre’s and pulls the arm of her shirt back down to hide the evidence of last night’s activities.  Courfeyrac passes her a hunk of bread which she gratefully accepts.  The hand free of the food, he raises it to cup Eponine’s face, a soft hand curling around her cheek and she sinks into the touch, Combeferre’s thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

‘It’s fine, I’m fine,’ she addresses the two Amis, Grantaire still though seeing red at the thought of Jerry touching the body in front of him.

‘It’s not fine’ Combeferre replies, in a harsher tone than Grantaire has yet heard from the man

‘It is.’  Eponine concludes; Grantaire can sense the finality she is trying to convey.

He speaks for the first time, ‘Does this happen often?’

‘Often enough.’ Combeferre says, his eyes fixed firmly on Eponine as he lowers himself into the seat next to her.

She shoots him a look, but his gaze does not waver.  She turns to Grantaire and Courfeyrac instead. ‘Look, I’m doing my bit.  Anything I can do, that’s what we say, right?’ She gestures around to Combeferre and Courf, the latter of whom reluctantly nods with his lips pressed in a thin line.

‘Ponine...’ Courf starts

‘No.  It’s okay. Okay?  It’s not like the information isn’t useful when I can get it.  Is it?’ She looks at Combeferre again who sighs and breaks eye contact with her.  ‘See?  Useful.  Enjolras needed a direct link to the Germans and the command and I found it.  It’s not nice, but it’s necessary.  It’s something I can do.’

Combeferre’s lips purse angrily when Enjolras is mentioned. ‘He didn’t mean _this_ , Ep.  He’s cold sometimes, but he didn’t mean this, he would never mean something like this.  You have to let me speak to him about this whole arrangement.’

‘Not until we can find a better source.  I’m the best we’ve got.  Look, he knows most of it.  The rest is my business.’ She raises an eyebrow at Ferre before reaching to grasp his and Courfeyrac’s hands and gives them a warm squeeze, flashing Grantaire a smile.

‘He didn’t mean this.’ Combeferre says again; Eponine just gives him another look to say that the conversation is over.  _This obviously isn’t a new talk to be having,_ Grantaire thinks – that makes him even angrier about the situation.

Eponine continues like it never happened, ‘Now.  More bread.  I’m starved.’  She is receiving a large chunk when a loud clatter is heard downstairs.  Grantaire’s whole body clenches, like a coil overwound and ready to explode with the energy, and draws in a sharp breath – ready to fight.   He makes a move for his ankle as Combeferre reaches out his hand, open palmed, to stop him.  ‘Lesgles’ awake,’ Combeferre gives as reason for the noise.

The guilt washes over Grantaire once more.  Once more he was provided with stimulus, and once more he jumped to violent conclusions.  Looking at Courfeyrac he can see a small amount of fear and apprehension behind his eyes, the look mirrored in Ep’s, though she is slightly more used to such reactions.  R runs a hand over his face.  ‘I’m going to take a shower.  Can’t remember my last.’

Courf is still tense, but his eyes soft, ‘Good idea, my friend,’ he smiles, ‘We were beginning to notice!’ Courfeyrac winks at him and Grantaire allows himself a small huff of laughter.  Combeferre, the tension once again diffused, checks his watch.

‘Courf, we should go soon.  We have a lecture.’

Courfeyrac groans, ‘I know’

Ferre directs his speech to Grantaire, ‘We will probably go gone when you are out here again.’

‘Okay’

Then to Eponine, ‘Will you take Grantaire to Feuilly later this morning?  He is going to show Grantaire around’

‘Of course I can!’

‘Lovely,’ Courfeyrac answers, now shovelling the remnants of the bread into his mouth, forcing Combeferre to almost wrestle a piece off him from across Eponine’s lap.

‘So what do you two study then?’  Grantaire inquires, laughing at the maturity of the two men fighting like pigeons while Eponine leans back with a bored expression as if it were a common occurrence.

Combeferre jumps in before Courf, ‘I study medicine and Courfeyrac is studying law.  Both nearing the ends of our degrees.’

‘Oh! Medicine, that’s...impressive.  And highly relevant and useful in today’s day and age!’ Grantaire adds, hiding some of his shock with his dry humour.  Few things aside from doctors were in fact in such high demand – if you discounted soldier to be used as cannon fodder, food and ammunition.  ‘And one of my friends is a lawyer...’

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah, well... he was.  He’s in the army now obviously.  Met him in Belgium.  American... Great kid.’  The light fading in Grantaire’s eyes does not go unnoticed by Courfeyrac, who watches the shoulders of the soldier sink a little as Grantaire concentrates on his hands.

‘Well then, you will have to introduce us!  I’m sure that I can learn some things – lawyers need to stick together you know, not too many friends out there!’ Courfeyrac jokes, a smile spreading across his face as he happily watches Grantaire sit up straighter again, a smile on his own lips.

‘Yeah, I’ll certainly introduce the two of you if I can.’

The “if we all survive” goes unsaid.

Grantaire rises from the table and heads towards his room to get a change of clothes.  ‘Towels are in the bathroom!’ Courfeyrac shouts at him, still in the throes of battle with Ferre, Eponine laughing as more and more crumbs fall in her lap, ‘We’ll see you later, R!’

‘See you later, Amis!’ Grantaire shouts in return at his friends.  _Yes,_ he thinks, _friends._

***

 

 

The two men are, indeed, gone, when Grantaire remerges from the bathroom half an hour later.  It had felt nice to wash off the past few days – the water was warm and soothing as it fell on his back and ran down his spine, falling over his shoulders.  He ran his hands through his hair a few times, his dark curls growing back after their unusually short hairstyle while Grantaire was on active duty.  It reminded him of days before the war, before any of it.  He didn’t know it that was a good thing or a bad thing.  He finally had the chance to shave the three day stubble that was growing on his face as well.  The sight of so much hair was almost foreign to him after months of regulations and standards, even on the front where everything was coated in filth and decay, appearances must be kept up.

Eponine was sitting at the table still, playing with an empty cup, and Grantaire could faintly smell coffee over the new smell of soap wafting off him.  ‘You ready to go then?’ Eponine smiles at him

‘Certainly am, just one second.’  Grantaire jogs over to his room and retrieves the SOE handgun from his rucksack placing it in the band of his pants, to complement his knife, cold and hard in its sheath. ‘Okay, off we go then.  To Feuilly?’

‘To Feuilly.  Bossuet has gone off to university as well, so thankfully we don’t have to worry too much about anything while we’re out today’

‘That sounds like a good thing’

‘Definitely a good thing’

They leave the flat, locking the doors and walk out onto the footpath.  Eponine threads an arm through Grantaire’s comfortably, like it was something they had been doing for years.  Grantaire likes it; likes that there is an ease between them.  Unfortunately, as with all his thoughts, the war runs as an undercurrent to the feeling and a voice in his head loudly dissents, _it can’t last.  War is everywhere.  It has touched Eponine.  Look at her arms.  It has touched you.  Look where you are.  Nothing is comfortable, nothing is secure, everything is fleeting, everything is turning.  It doesn’t stop._

As if on cue a German soldier in grey uniform walks past the two of them as Eponine leads Grantaire along, Grantaire assumes towards Feuilly’s home.  It is yet another reminder of where he is, of his job and of his life.  Eponine feels the tightening of Grantaire’s arm as the enemy strolls passed, so near and so untouchable, obvious as she is pulled a little closer to Grantaire’s body, whether instinctually, reflexively or just subconsciously.  She places her other hand on Grantaire’s arm and rubs up it once, trying to sooth the muscle. Grantaire looks at her and conveys his horror at the Parisian conditions – the living arrangements.  It goes against every fibre of Grantaire’s programmed being.  The hatred is also conveyed.  It’s a hate Eponine shares.

Grantaire places his hand over Eponine’s and holds on, willing himself to continue on their path and not after the German.  The man in grey was only one of so many – killing him would mean nothing, it would not even be symbolic.

 

 

***

 

 

Feuilly shows him some of the more ordinary sights of Paris, places that used to draw thousands of tourists pre-war – the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe and the like – all so much bigger when not seen from a car window or as a photograph or drawing, and all so much more beautiful, standing in spite of the wars of men.  Grantaire tells Feuilly how much he regrets not bringing a pencil and paper out today to add his own sketches to the infinite number that already exist in the world of the famous structures.

‘Plenty of time for that, Grantaire.  They aren’t going anywhere anytime soon’

‘No,’ Grantaire says, raising his eyes to look at the top of the Eiffel Tower, ‘I suppose they aren’t’ _Though they wouldn’t be the first priceless and irreplaceable things to be destroyed._

As the ay continues, Feuilly shows Grantaire some of the meeting sights too of various groups affiliated with Les Amis and where various branches of the Government and military gather.  Each duly noted by Grantaire, trying to commit them all to memory.  All these details could come in handy someday soon, he knows.

‘Enjolras and Combeferre will show you how to report to your command though.  There are some things even a man like me cannot know’

‘And what things do you know?’

‘You would be surprised the number of things you hear as a poor artist next to the Sacre Coeur, people hardly even notice you are there.’

‘Hah, I’m sure’ Grantaire knew what it was to be an artist, going about their business in their own little world.  He can certainly imagine how people can forget to notice some unless they look, especially in such a place as Montmartre. ‘You will have to take me up there one day with you, yes?’

‘Of course!  Can always use the company!’ Feuilly smiles easily.  Grantaire finds himself wanting to know more about the man; as much as he can about every member of Les Amis.  Grantaire wants to know about Feuilly’s family, his life, his childhood, this thoughts, his aspirations – how he even joined Les Amis, how anyone joined the guerrilla group.  How did Feuilly, the poor seemingly uneducated street artist, become one of the strongest fighters in the secret and underground war against the Germans?

Eventually, somehow, the conversation between the two men turns to the other fronts of the war and some of the other countries in which the SOE operates – facts and operations, Grantaire is absolutely certain, Feuilly should not know about.  Feuilly, Grantaire is surprised to find, is particularly enamoured and impressed by the Polish.

‘They have been so strong.  Despite the never-ending assault against her, she has stayed firm and unwavering in her strength throughout the war.  Poland is attacked on all sides by her enemies and yet her people refuse to capitulate to the foreign and abhorrent powers.  She is a beacon, in my opinion.  Poland is an example to the rest of Europe.  She’s a far-sight stronger than France’ The passion in Feuilly’s eyes is mitigated slightly by a glimmer of amusement that slips into them, ‘don’t say things like that too loudly in front of Enjolras though.  He is personally offended by any slight against the beautiful and righteous France, especially in her time of weakness.  France is truly our fearless leader’s lady love.  Insulting France is like insulting his wife’

Grantaire laughs at that.  He is intrigued by how one man can have so much devotion to his country, he finds it amusing.  Everyone loves their home, yes, but Enjolras truly is a patriot – he seems to love France not just because she is his home, but for what she is, what France as a nation have been and, perhaps more strongly, what France can become in the future.  He is also slightly aroused by such a passion, by the look of it when he saw it last night dancing in his angelic leader’s eyes; though naturally Grantaire would fervently deny such a feeling ever existing, of course.

 _At least it shows the man is capable of love in some form,_ his traitorous mind provides.

In England, whilst reading the pamphlets distributed by Les Amis, Grantaire had always found that the wording of them to be somewhat romantic, beyond just bare ideology – it appears, now, that “romantic” was exactly the right adjective to be using in the circumstances.  Though, beneath it all, Grantaire could not question Enjolras’, and indeed all of his new-found friends’ (even if Enjolras wasn’t counted among them), devotion to France, and above all to her people.  They all believe.  And they all want to make a difference – whether it be Eponine and her information, or Feuilly and his vision of a Polish-esque future for France.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, Combeferre/Eponine - I can't help myself. I wasn't intending it and then woops! Found myself writing it.


	13. Chapter 13

After two weeks Grantaire more or less settles in to the routine of Les Amis. 

In the mornings, it is highly unlikely that he will ever be alone while Courf sleeps in, one of the Amis is always in the house; usually Jehan or Combeferre are the ones up early enough to be in the kitchen when Grantaire emerges for a shower in the morning, cheerfully greeting him while they drink coffee and read the morning paper at the table.  By the time Grantaire has showered, wrapped a towel around his waist and walked back past the kitchen, someone else may have joined – Eponine perhaps, Combeferre checking her for bruises or cuts, kissing her hands and holding on as if she may disappear. There was one regrettable morning, which isn’t mentioned where Bossuet was walking across from the table without looking where he was going, stumbling into Grantaire and ripping the towel from him in the process.  Combeferre had clamped a hand over his mouth to smother the laughter, and Courfeyrac, who had been woken by the twin shrieks of Grantaire and Bossuet as they toppled over, walked out of his bedroom, rubbing a hand through his hair, to see Grantaire standing up and trying to retrieve his towel with one hand, protecting his modesty with the other.  Courfeyrac ran his eyes up and down Grantaire’s form, already impressed at the upper half he had seen on previous mornings and wolf-whistled, wriggling his eyebrows.  Once pulling his towel out from under a mortified Bossuet, Grantaire, still with a hand over his groin, twisted it into a roll and flicked Courf with it, hard - a motion R had perfected in the army.  Courf let out a small cry of pain but got the message, only chuckling softly as Grantaire re-wrapped himself and scowled as he left the room.

At some point in the routine of the morning, Combeferre would drag Courfeyrac out of the flat and to classes, and anyone else there would follow, save Eponine.  She and Grantaire would then decide what to do for the rest of the day while most of the group were at university.  Sometimes they would stay in the flat and laze on the couch listening to the radio. With it playing in the background they talk about everything – where they are from, some about their families and friends that they have had throughout their lives.  They don’t talk about much that happened to them post-1941, but that’s okay for the both of them.  Some things are better left alone and unsaid.  Grantaire begins to feel that no-one has known him as well as Eponine is beginning to, not even Bahorel.  Eponine helps Grantaire keep up with the French slang and allows him to sound more natural and Parisian, and he helps her with her English.  She even teaches Grantaire some German, which, as with most things, Grantaire picks up quickly; though each time she praises his ability he scoffs and laughs off the compliments.

 Four weeks into Grantaire’s time in France, Eponine decides that its time they dance.  As a result they spend the whole day dancing around the flat to the tunes on the radio, singing along to the ones that they know and Grantaire humming harmonies to the ones that are unfamiliar. Ep smiles wide, occasionally closing her eyes to listen to Grantaire’s tone as she’s led around the room, bursting into laughter every time she was dipped low and Grantaire would plant a kiss on her cheek.  If a news bulletin ever came on whilst they listened, they would turn it off, or put on an old record of Courfeyrac’s on the player that they dug out of a cupboard in his bedroom;  because when Eponine and Grantaire danced, the war didn’t exist and they could pretend their life was perfect. 

If it  ever become too much, between Eponine’s nights and Grantaire’s nightmares, and the meetings of Les Amis that were becoming more frequent and more serious all the time, they would spend the day in the flat and dance, drinking wine or any alcohol they could find and ignore it all. 

One day they fell asleep on the couch after tiring themselves out; they collapsed with Grantaire half across Eponine, her arms wrapped around him subconsciously when he whined and twitched in his sleep, soothing him by rubbing motherly circles over his back.  Combeferre and Courfeyrac arrived back at the flat at around six o’clock in the evening, taking off their overcoats and placing them on the hooks at the door, to find the two sleeping figures on the couch with a warm blanket thrown over them and tucked in at the sides, and Enjolras sitting innocently at the table with the latest copies of their pamphlet in front of him and a cup of coffee.  Courfeyrac looked between the couch and his golden leader and threw a fist in the air triumphantly, a huge smile on his face.  He would have made some excited noise too if it weren’t for the shock created when Enjolras threw a finger in front of his mouth in a shushing gesture, motioning at the couch.  Combeferre chuckled a little at Courf wide-eyed look and walked up to Enjolras to sit next to him, patting him on the shoulder before diving into discussion about edits to the new edition.  Enjolras gave him a small confused look but was more than happy to move on and back to the matter at hand.

 

***

 

After two months, Feuilly finally tells him that he can come up to Montmartre.  For once he leaves the flat before anybody else, with some brushes and pencils that he brought with him from England.  He trusts that Feuilly will have enough paints, and he hoped that he would have a canvas spare, if Grantaire was extremely lucky (which he rarely was) Feuilly may even have an easel that Grantaire can set up in front of the Sacre Coeur, overlooking the city, admiring the Eiffel Tower rising up out of the buildings, and the bright golden dome of Les Invalides.

He promises to meet Combeferre later in the day to communicate with his supervisors in the SOE and then attend a meeting at the Musain. ‘Claquesous is opening another of his good bottles for us tonight, so make sure you and Feuilly are on time,’ Combeferre tells Grantaire

‘Oh, don’t you fret my friend, we will be there!’ Grantaire replies with a mock salute to him and the newly-awoken Courfeyrac.  ‘And make sure Courf gets some coffee in him.  He looks atrocious!’

Combeferre laughs at Courfeyrac’s offended groan and promises to do just that, ‘As long as you say hello to Feuilly for me.  It’s been about a week since I saw him last!’

R salutes a second time and leaves the room, wrapping a scarf around his neck and his coat over his wide shoulders.  As a rule, despite not being on active duty as such, Grantaire has kept up his exercise, convincing Feuilly and, though he has come to regret it, Bossuet, to join him in the boxing ring.  Feuilly makes a strong opponents, but Lesgles manages to hit himself in the face more often than he lays a punch on Grantaire.  Grantaire may have lost some muscle in his first couple of months in France, but it was still more than enough t have the back of his overcoat stretch a little across his back.

Feuilly is waiting at the door for him, leaning against Combeferre’s car.  ‘Combeferre said we could drive there,’ he informs Grantaire, a wide smile on his face.  ‘Easier to carry the two easels that way’

Grantaire has to seriously suppress the urge to kiss him.  _Maybe if Feuilly were a little more blonde, a little more righteous, a little more like an avenging angel.  No.  Stop._

‘You are a god amongst men.  So is Combeferre for that matter.’  He looks up at the window of his flat that faces the street – the blonde man standing in view and raising his coffee mug, taking a sip and wondering away from the glass. 

‘I know,’ Feuilly replies looking smug. He then opens the passenger door for Grantaire, like he is a lady, though not waiting for his friend to step in before moving to the driver’s side and getting comfortable in the seat. ‘Hurry up then, don’t want to waste any of the good light, do we?’

The drive is short and tense, despite the best efforts by both men to be as nonchalant as before.  Every drive is a stark reminder at just how deep Paris is under German occupation, the men in grey like a mould growing across the whole beautiful city.  _Perhaps they will not tear down Les Invalides,_ Grantaire thinks, _the grey will just encompass everything and turn it dull and bland and awful._ The longer he stays, the better he likes Philippe’s metaphor of vermin.  Rats, or cockroaches, multiplying and bloody hard to kill.

The day passes with the two men amongst the other artists, listening to the city and the passers-by, working whilst people stop to watch their progress before moving on, and almost escaping the war until Grantaire can tune in to the German being spoken around him.  It takes a deep breath and a tight clenching of his fists to calm himself – a practise that he has taken up to suppress his reflexes, something that Jehan has been working on with him.  Few times is he more thankful for the re-training than today when there are so many opportunities to pointlessly lash out.

Grantaire’s work is finished before Feuilly has sold all of his work for the day, his little fans laid out on a blanket on the ground.  He takes a step back to view the canvas, wiping his hands on his pant legs and leaving streaks of paint behind, rubbing his eyes to refocus in the fading light.  It is a cityscape; _what else would I paint whilst standing here?_ Grantaire thinks, finding it hard to imagine anyone wanting to paint anything different.  No figures populate the work, empty streets, dark windows, nobody home.  A single ray of light shines through the grey clouds that fill the Parisian sky, Grantaire’s sky; a single yellow rays that illuminates a single building in the distance, in roughly the position Grantaire imagines the Musain resides.  Feuilly too admires the picture and smiles, winking at Grantaire.  ‘You really do have a talent, R’

‘Bah!  Nothing close to it, I’m just bored easily’

How can you say that?  Your work is marvellous‘

Grantaire laughs at the thought of it being anything particularly special, ‘You’re ridiculous, dear Feuilly, it is a painting like millions of others, one that belongs leaning against a wall.  It’s not exactly a museum piece’

His lop-sided smile makes Feuilly narrow his eyes in something near annoyance, ‘One day, cynic, you will see.  People can see you, no matter how much you hide.  We can see you.  You are unique.’

‘If you say so’

‘I do.  I know.  And we need you, even if you believe otherwise’

 _A certain golden-haired idealist has told my otherwise,_ Grantaire thinks, _my entire existence has told me otherwise._ Though, instead of saying as such out loud Grantaire simply claps a hand on his friend’s shoulder and sits down on the pavement, lighting a cigarette and closing his eyes.


	14. Chapter 14

Grantaire makes his own way to the SOE meeting, as Feuilly cannot know where it is being held, as much for his own safety as it is in line with the rules.  Enjolras and Combeferre are already there, Enjolras leaning against a wall, not-so-patiently waiting for his Brit.  Combeferre has taken off his glasses and is rubbing his temples; Grantaire chuckles at this sight – clearly Enjolras has been moaning about how late Grantaire is making them. The relief on Ferre’s face is obvious when they see R walking towards them and Enjolras pushes himself from the bricks.

‘Glad you could finally make it, Grantaire,’ Enjolras says, turning around towards the door of the SOE building. Combeferre looks at Grantaire and smirks.  As Enjolras reaches the handle, he turns again as if he only just processed what he saw, ‘Wait, you have paint all over you!  It’s all in your hair...’ Enjolras’ eyes run up and down Grantaire, making him squirm under the appraisal.  He is about to make a cutting reply when Enjolras reaches out a hand and runs his thumb along R’s cheekbone, letting it linger for a moment before he makes eye contact with a distressed Grantaire. Ferre clears his throat and Enjolras takes a step back, seemingly waking up to himself, and pulls his jacket more tightly around himself. ‘Well, I’ve got the largest dollop of paint; the rest will just have to keep.’

Enjolras then determinedly returns to the door, swings it open and enters, leaving his best friend on the sidewalk with the paint-flecked soldier.  Combeferre stays a moment to make sure Grantaire is not comatose, ‘Shall we?’ he says, gesturing at the door.

Grantaire bites his lip, his eyebrows drawing together in a frown and nods once, following his leader through the door. Combeferre sighs deeply, wondering when being part of a militant and vocal faction of the Resistance became so damn complicated, rubs his eyes and steps off the street, scanning to see if anyone is sitting and watching the building as he closes the door.

 

***

 

 

 

Meeting adjourned – information passed on and new goals set, the three men step back out onto the street to be greeted by Gavroche.

‘Gavroche, what the hell are you doing here?’ Enjolras hisses at him

‘Waiting for you?’

‘You really shouldn’t be here, kid,’ Grantaire steps in, blocking the boy from Enjolras, who looks like he is preparing a long and ruthless lecture for the adolescent.  He ruffles Gav’s hair, laughing as Gavroche groans.

Gavroche quickly smooths it back down, pokes out his tongue and dashes off, throwing over his shoulder, ‘You’re going to be late to the Musain, Enjy!’

Grantaire chuckles behind his hand seeing Enjolras’ frown deepen and the tips of his ears redden (in a quirk that Grantaire has discovered recently and found that he completely adores). Combeferre walks out from behind the two men, bumping the shoulders of both as he passes.  As much as he knows he should stay with his friends, if for the sake of Grantaire if not anything else, all he can think about is Eponine’s reaction when she finds Gavroche sitting in another meeting; and the secondary reaction when she finds out that he followed them to the SOE locatoin.

The quicker Combeferre gets to the Musain and calms Eponine, the better it will be for everybody, he decides. He shouldn’t leave it for Jehan and Courf alone.

Enjolras and Grantaire’s eyes follow Combeferre as he rushes down the street after the boy, Grantaire fervently wishing that the third man hadn’t left he and his golden man with only each other’s company.

Only once have Enjolras and Grantaire been left alone - when Courfeyrac and R were the first to arrive at the Musain three weeks ago and Enjolras was setting up the backroom.  Courfeyrac left the two of them there, smirk on his face and closing the door behind him, as he went up to Claquesous at the bar and asked for a bottle of wine.  Claquesous hadn’t been able to attend meetings in recent weeks and so Courfeyrac had been charged with keeping the bartender up to date.  He retuned to the room to find the soldier and the leader in each other’s faces, arguing about the current climate of the war. Knowing the weapons that Grantaire carried with him at all times, as well as being sure that Enjolras had at least one knife on him, he grabbed the back of Grantaire’s collar and pulled him away. Enjolras continued to stare him down even after R had calmed himself and sat down on the other side of the room. Enjolras relaxed minutely when Combeferre arrived, but remained more agitated than usual for the rest of the night, often sending lingering and heated looks Grantaire’s way, as if challenging him to say something, to negate him.  R remained silent for the rest of the night, watching Enjolras, listening to the meeting and humming into a quickly emptying wine bottle. Grantaire was the first one to leave at the end, not staying late as he normally would – Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a look before the former shrugged followed his friend back to the flat.

 

 

Enjolras is the first to start walking, Grantaire following along behind.  When they finally arrive at the Musain they are, in fact, the last ones there; Gavroche sits on a table and smirks t them, winking as the walk in the door. 

 _Cheeky bugger_.

Enjolras calls them all to attention, the meet running as it normally does from then on out with one exception.  Toward the end, Enjolras turns to where Grantaire is seated with Jehan, whispering in Jehan’s ear and making him laugh.  Whereas Grantaire thinks that he is about to be reprimanded for talking while the great leader has the floor, he instead receives, ‘Grantaire, I want you to start working with Jehan.  It’s about time we made proper use of you within in Les Amis rather than just you making use of us through the Executive.  Jehan, I want you to teach Grantaire all about the radio and communications systems – make him your apprentice, if you will.  Grantaire may even have some suggestions as to how to keep them secure going forward.’

Jehan smiles at Enjolras and nods enthusiastically, Enjolras returning a small smile, before clapping his hands together, ‘Alright everyone, unless anyone has anything to add, I think we are done here.’  As everyone begins to talk amongst themselves, Grantaire excuses himself from Jehan and approaches Enjolras.

‘Trusting me with the comms, are we now, Apollo?’

Enjolras frowns at the nickname, ‘I’ve told you not to call me that’

‘I know,’ Grantaire smirks, ‘But really; me?  The comms?  Surely you would rather I work with Bossuet and the guns, or at least running up some more contacts?’

‘No, Grantaire, I know you have had some experience with the radio before from when you were in the army – don’t put yourself down so.  I also know that, despite your best efforts to conceal it, you have the intelligence to handle it.  The fact of the matter is that the longer we keep the same codes and phrases, the easier it will be to crack the network – I want you to provide a fresh insight, and fresh ideas.  As good as Jean is, he can only do so much.  You two will work well together.’

Grantaire looks shocked at the compliment and faith that Enjolras seems to be showing in him, making Enjolras slightly confused, ‘Why would you think I wouldn’t trust you, Grantaire?  You must know that I trust you completely.  Don't think this is a split decision, I have been considering this for a while and have discussed it with Ferre - we both think you will excel at this.’

The two men hold each other’s gaze for a moment, before Enjolras clears his throat breaking the contact and some of the tension, ‘Now, excuse me, I think I'm going to have to talk to Eponine and Gavroche’

Enjolras gives Grantaire a moment to reply, but when he doesn’t Enjolras nods once and turns his back to find the two Thenardiers, who are chatting with Courfeyrac at a table.

 _That was certainly fucking weird,_ is all Grantaire’s brain can supply, _what does he mean he trusts me completely?_ _Why is he putting faith in me?_

_What happens when a god puts his faith in a disciple?_


	15. Chapter 15

Jehan gives Grantaire a run down of their radio equipment and capabilities, though it doesn’t take long. Grantaire has seen it all before in one capacity or the other.  Sure, some of the frequencies are slightly different and the codes and phrases are certainly different – but the ends are still the same.  The codes are elegant, simple but not obvious. Jehan proudly tells Grantaire that to date, in the two years that Les Amis have been together only one of his codes has been cracked, ‘And it was only a request for gloves from another group. They couldn’t even figure anything our from that except that someone had cold fingers!’ Jehan said, smiling from ear to ear.  Grantaire chuckles at his friend’s glee – when the British codes were cracked once in Belgium, the consequences had been more severe…

 

‘Have you been in contact with the BBC?’ Grantaire asks

‘Once.  When they told us you were coming, we got in contact just to make sure they were there.  Mostly we haven’t needed to – you and Ferre and Enj do the communication job well enough’

‘Okay, well, let’s get in contact with them now then.  You never know what could happen – I am not an optimist after all,’ he says with a wink.

 

Jehan twists the dials on the radio, putting his headset back on.  It takes five minutes to get the tuning right and start to hear the British accents of the BBC.  Grantaire can’t help but smile when he receives the headset from Jean. 

 

_The war is raging, but the BBC radio plays on._

 

 

Grantaire and Jehan spend weeks devising knew lines and keys.  Jean Prouvaire, poet and romantic, adores some of the poetry that Grantaire introduces him to, incorporating much of it into the coding system. To Grantaire’s delight, Wilfred Owen gets a mention – a way for Jehan to communicate with his Brit should they ever become separated.

 

For once, miraculously, Enjolras even seemed impressed by the work.  It was a master stroke to place R and Jehan together in this Combeferre most certainly got this right (as he often did) when he suggested that the pairing would work.

 

The comms were more secure than ever, and communication between the groups was becoming more frequent and more open, still with the security that they needed.  Enjolras’ uprising was looking more and more likely by the day, and as each week passed, the SOE were getting exciting. Plans were even beginning to be discussed in their briefings, possible dates and months occasionally being mentioned.   Even the dates that weren’t at all serious were an exciting prospect. 

 

 _This could happen,_ Grantaire thought to himself, _He could do this. He and his merry band could actually pull this off._

However, that should have been the warning for Grantaire.

 

***

 

 

First it was just some idle chatter that he and Jehan were hearing on the radio.  The odd mention of things happening that shouldn’t be happening. There were moves being made against plans that no-one should know about, plans that should have been impossible to hear through any channel.  It wasn’t important to begin with – the plans were hardly impressive ones, sometimes not even realistic ones; but it was worrying nonetheless.

 

Grantaire was excused from the SOE meetings, leaving Combeferre and Enjolras to meet with their handlers; they would attack the issue the two fronts.  Grantaire assisted Jehan more often, and Combeferre and Enjolras went to meetings more often.  They were told by their bosses to compartmentalize.  So, they compartmentalized; and for a time it worked.

 

The problem though came from nobody being liked left in the dark.  Enjolras most of all hated keeping anything from the rest of the Resistance, let alone their own group, their _friends._ He trusted all of them with his life.

 

Les Amis were brothers and sisters and were so entwined and dependent that a compromise had to be made. They would compartmentalize, yes, but only on a wider platform – everyone in Les Amis remained informed of plans, but outside of the four walls of the Musain’s back room, information was vetted, controlled.  Enjolras was still deeply unhappy, but Combeferre convinced him that it was the only option – which the leader already knew as fact, yet did not want to accept.

 

 

 

****

 

 

Another Les Amis meeting was concluded and everyone but Grantaire and Jehan headed home for the night. Claquesous left them the key to the café, asking them to lock it when they left.  Tonight was going to be important.  Everyone was assigned a job.  Whether it was someone to meet, or somewhere to be – tonight was going to change things.  After weeks feeling secure again, Enjolras and his handlers decided it was time for more decisive action. 

 

Grantaire and Jean were staying behind to contact as many factions as they could.  They were going to combine their resources, grow as much as they could.  Once contact had been made, Claquesous, Bossuet and Courfeyrac would meet at an agreed place with other members, hopefully to collect weapons and quickly exchange locations and dates – face-to-face was decided to be more efficient than one-by-one on the radio.

 

Combeferre and Enjolras were waiting at Combeferre’s flat for their cue to meet with their handlers and some key leaders in the other factions.  Tonight, the mystic SOE would reveal themselves to the wider Resistance – before now, many simply considered them a myth, hearing nothing but that the odd Brit or Pole was arriving in the country.

 

Eponine was meeting with one of her soldiers tonight - a member of the French Milice currently spending his time in Paris by the name of Montparnasse.  Recently returned from catching an influential group of maquisards. Eponine hoped that while everyone else was being useful, with a bit of flattery she would be able to find out how the maquis was found and what happened to them – Montparnasse was usually quite liberal with his tongue.

 

 

****

 

 

The banging on Combeferre’s door sent Enjolras shooting out of his chair at the dining table, someone knocking frantically.  No-one should be here.

 

‘Open up!’ Eponine called from the other side of the door.  The sound of her voice made Combeferre stand; she was breathless and desperate.

 

Enjolras unbolted the door and flung it open, seeing Eponine standing in the hallway, hands clenched in fists at her sides, tears running down her cheeks.  Her left eye was showing the first signs of a black eye and her top buttons were gone, making he shirt slip slightly, revealing the white of her shoulder.  Combeferre rushed forward but stopped dead when she spoke again.

 

‘They know,’ she managed, before the fact finally hit her and she smothered a sob with her hand, falling into Combeferre’s open arms.


	16. Chapter 16

Enjolras could hear nothing but the ringing in his ears – the sound of Eponine becoming like white noise: ‘They know, they know, they know’ over and over.

 

Eponine had begun to cry in Combeferre’s arm, the man trying to suppress panic to hold her for a moment. They needed to know more. He looked at Enjolras who just stood there, fear in his eyes.  He knew what his friend was thinking – _How has this all gone so wrong?_

 

He squeezed Eponine tight and gave her a kiss on the top of her head before gently pulling her away from his shoulder.  Hair had fallen into her eyes and he held a hand under her chin delicately while sweeping the fly-aways back and tucking them behind her ears, ‘Eponine,’ he said as another sob wracked through her, ‘Ep, my love, I know it’s hard but you need to tell us – what do they know?’  Combeferre wiped a tear off her cheek, ‘What do they know, Eponine?’

 

‘Mont-Montparnasse knew who I was – who I was with,’ she sobbed, ‘They’ve known for weeks, just biding their time to gather information on us – all of us!’ she said louder, putting a hand on her forehead and struggling to breathe.  She took a deep breath and continued, ‘He… he laughed in my face… he found it so funny how _clueless_ we all are. God, how could I be so _stupid!?_ ’

 

‘Ep, this is important – do you know what they are going to do?  Did he saying anything?  Anything at all?’

 

‘He said they were going to cut us off at the knees – immobilize tonight before taking away the head.’ Both pairs of eyes flicked to Enjolras who was only now beginning to show signs that he was hearing the conversation.

 

‘Cut us off at the knees?’ Combeferre repeated.  What could that mean? Obviously Enjolras was the head, probably should include himself at the head as well.  The rest?  Everyone was equal, the jobs were no more or less important than the next on a normal day. Everyone had their role.

 

What were their roles tonight? Courf, Bossuet, Claquesous – they were waiting for fighters.  He and Enjolras were waiting for the official part to begin.  But it dawned on Combeferre that there was a first step to their actions tonight – initial contact.

 

‘They are heading to the café,’ he deadpanned, the implications stacking up in his brain.

 

This finally pulled Enjolras into action, ‘Grantaire and Jehan,’ he said, before running out the door and hurtling down the stairs – Combeferre’s shouting of his name falling on deaf ears and then an empty stairwell.

 

He looked at Eponine who had pulled herself together enough to look him in the eyes, ‘Go,’ she declared – and he was gone.  Following his best friend, hoping to God that tonight would not end bloody.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know - 2 in 2 days - crazy right?

Enjolras made it to the car and was about to drive away from the curb when he heard the passenger door open, Combeferre hurling himself into the seat, ‘Drive.  Eponine is going to call the rest.  She knows what to do – we will all meet were we agreed we would if this ever happened.’

 

Enjolras put his foot down, counting down the minutes, the seconds it would take to get to the Musain – each one felt like an eternity, pure torture.  For Enjolras it was like every minute that passed was another minute off Grantaire and Jehan’s lives.  They had to get there _now._

Combeferre kept his eyes fixed on Enjolras, trying to gauge how clearly the blonde man was thinking – they would be no use to either man if they wrapped themselves around a lamppost before reaching the café.  He could hear Enjolras muttering to himself, ‘Stupid, stupid… it’s taking too long… God fucking DAMN IT!’ he yelled at the end making Ferre jump as Enjolras banged a hand down on the steering wheel.

 

‘Enjolras!’ Combeferre chastised, ‘Calm down, or you’ll be no use to them.  Do you have your gun?’

 

Enjolras’ eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say that he was an idiot and left it back at the flat. Combeferre jumped in, ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a spare for you.’  The small grateful smile was the first real emotion that Enjolras had shown since Eponine arrived at their door and it made Combeferre feel somewhat better about his friend’s state of mind.

 

Finally, after an eternity they arrived at the café, Enjolras pulling up on the curb with a screech, hitting it with his front wheel.  When Combeferre saw the other car pulled up in front of them, one that had clearly been here for longer than they had, he turned to Enjolras expecting to have to refocus him and cut through the panic.  What he sees however is pure rage.  Enjolras’ eyes are set and it’s terrifying.  Combeferre opens his door at the same time Enjolras does and gets out in time to pass Enjolras a loaded gun as he runs past.  Combeferre follows him in with his own gun, never far behind.

 

Enjolras can hear screaming – there is a fight going on in their meeting room that he can only partially see through the ajar door.  There’s obviously more than one person still alive in there, yet he can see the boots of someone lying on the ground, completely still despite all.  He raises his gun and throws the door open ready to shoot whatever comes at him first.

 

Grantaire is there, it was clearly his screams that Enjolras heard.  He is on the ground, his face with a cut on his cheekbone, under his eye and a clearly broken nose.  He has been beaten and is holding his damaged shoulder strangely.  Next to him is a body, lying face down in a pool of blood, Grantaire’s knife lodged firmly in his back.  Not Jehan then, Enjolras has time to think before the man who Grantaire was fighting advances on him again.

 

Grantaire looks up pitifully at the figure that burst through the door, recognition lighting up in his eyes and igniting a whole new kind of fear in the soldier, ‘Enjolras, no…’ Grantaire croaks before he is lifted up from the ground, a forearm around his neck and a gun to the side of his head.

 

Grantaire though can’t take his eyes from the golden man in the doorway. 

 

 _He is_ _magnificent_ , he thinks, _like a lion, like an angel, like Death._

He is completely enraptured and hardly registers Combeferre joining Enjolras at the door, raising his own weapon.

 

He can see the moment that Enjolras realises who is holding him captive, and can see the way it makes him shake with rage.

 

‘Claquesous,’ Enjolras growls, through his clenched teeth, ‘How could you?’

 

He can feel Claquesous shrug in response and can imagine his grin, teeth-beared like some Cheshire cat, ‘Guess you never did see my true face until now, dear Enjolras,’ he said, calmly, as if this were no more out of the ordinary than one of the many meetings he took part in in this same room.

 

Enjolras is blinded by rage for a moment, calming himself to ask, ‘Where is Jehan?’

The name sends a shock through Grantaire. 

 

_I was too late, I realized too late.  How could I be so stupid? I could have protected him and yet I was as useless as when I had men bleeding out on my lap in Belgium._

‘Gone.  You just missed him actually.  He will be getting to know some new friends.  But shhh, it’s secret,’ Claquesous winks.

 

Enjolras tilts his head towards Combeferre, keeping his eyes locked on Claquesous, and says something in a hushed that Grantaire can’t quite catch.  Combeferre turns to look at his best friend, a mixture of anger, shock and confusion on his face before nodding once and walking backwards out the door – likely to try and find Jehan somewhere. 

 

_It will be no use.  We are all dead. It’s my fault. I couldn’t stop any of it._

Enjolras remains and it’s like another punch to Grantaire’s gut.  _Enjolras is going to die and it’s going to be because of me._

 

Claquesous tightens his grip on Grantaire, cutting off a little more of his oxygen, stars appearing around the corners of his vision. Enjolras takes a step forward, his eyes flicking to Grantaire with a worried look that Grantaire would have missed if he would not completely and utterly focused on the Apollo before him.

 

‘Careful now, Enj, you wouldn’t want me to do anything rash,’ Claquesous teases.

 

‘Enjolras,’ he says quietly, ‘Please, no.’ Grantaire hears and feels Claquesous laugh again.

 

This time the look on his golden face lasts longer, and it’s almost a look of pain and Grantaire want it to go away, wants to never ever see it again.  Enjolras needs to leave right now.  Grantaire can’t watch him die; can’t watch bullets pierce his chest or the light drain from his eyes.

 

He can’t.  Enjolras needs to get out of this.  Grantaire won’t let anything happen to him.

 

It happened in a split second; Grantaire knew that he had very little time.  He spared a last look for Enjolras, drinking in the glorious sight of him in that doorway.  _If I am to die at least that will be the last thing I see._

 

He closes his eyes and sends an elbow straight back into Claquesous’s unprepared sternum. He spins himself around with his hand on Claquesous’ gun and without turning back screams, ‘ENJOLRAS, GO!’ before raising his foot, ignoring the pain and bruising in his stomach and chest and plants it straight down on Claquesous’s kneecap, hearing the sound of bone snapping as he goes down to the floor.  He however doesn’t relinquish the hold on the gun, taking it down with him and tearing it out of Grantaire’s hand.

 

Despite his best efforts, Grantaire looks over his shoulder hoping to see Enjolras gone, hoping beyond hope to see an empty doorway.  But that’s not what he sees.

 

Enjolras is still there, gun following Claquesous to the ground as he strides across the room. He comes to Grantaire’s side and clamps a hand around his wrist, squeezing with everything he can manage. Claquesous trains his gun on Enjolras, or at least tries to through the pain in his leg.

 

‘You have done a very stupid thing, Claquesous,’ Enjolras says, ‘A very stupid thing indeed.’ Some fear begins o creep into Claquesous’s expression.  Enjolras takes another step forward and steps down on Claquesous’s leg, right at the point that it broke.  The scream that Claquesous lets free from his body is blood-curdling, making Grantaire cringe and bringing back far too many memories, ‘Never, _never_ , attack me through the people I lo- the people I care about. Never.  Maybe tonight you _vermin_ will get that message.’  Claquesous’s eyes go wide and he tried to raise his hands for forgiveness, or defense, Grantaire isn’t sure which.  What he does see however is Enjolras lean down to place his gun against the traitor’s forehead, ‘Vive la Resistance,’ he whispers and fires.

 

Claquesous’s lifeless body slumps to the ground, blood spreading.  Enjolras takes that in for a moment before silently turning around. The look that Grantaire sees in his eyes is no longer fire – it’s ice.

 

Enjolras drops his gun to the floor, and Grantaire can see his hands begin to shake, the dead look still in his eyes.

 

Grantaire realises that this must be Enjolras’ first time.  Having never signed up to the army, Enjolras would never have had cause to kill a man before, let alone kill a man in the cruel, cold way that Grantaire just witnessed.

 

Grantaire lets him stand there for a moment and steps in when he sees the adrenaline run out and Enjolras’ legs go weak. He is there to catch him when he almost falls.

 

‘Enjolras?  Enjolras, we need to go,’ he says, knowing that someone has to be coming for them, to clean up, make sure, _whatever,_ someone will be coming and Grantaire knows that he won’t be able to take them on, not like this.  ‘Enjolras,’ he says louder this time, trying to wake Enjolras up to himself again.

 

The golden man’s eyes are still glazed over, not registering Grantaire’s voice – not yet, anyway; not really.

 

Grantaire reaches for one of Enjolras’ shaking hands and clasps it in one of his own, and notices that the shaking lessens and then stops.  ‘Enj? Apollo, we _have_ to get out of here, right bloody now!’

 

The shouting cuts through whatever temporary wall Enjolras had put up and his head snaps to Grantaire. The hand that’s not held in Grantaire’s lifts up to the soldier’s face and ever so gently – so gently Grantaire could almost cry – traces along a cheekbones and then cradles his face, ‘Grantaire, you’re bleeding,’ Enjolras says, his voice practically a whisper, as he absent-mindedly moves his thumb soothingly on Grantaire’s panicked face.

 

‘I’m fine, ’ Grantaire says, allowing himself one moment to close his eyes and take in the feeling of Enjolras’s soft fingers, before reopening his eyes and remembering what he is doing, ‘But we need to get out of here, seriously, Enjolras – I’m alive, we are _both_ alive, but we won’t be for much longer if we don’t _move_ ,’ he continues as gently as he can, removing Enjolras’ hand from his face and watching an expression come and go.

 

He does however see the light slowly returning to his leader.  He can see Enjolras’ posture changing little bit by bit, growing back into a god. Still holding Enjolras’ hand so takes a step, coaxing Enjolras out of his position.  Enjolras follows, gripping Grantaire’s hand tighter as he does.

 

Grantaire continues to make strides, collecting his knife from the back of the agent he killed and wiping it on the dead man’s shirt, before continuing out the room and into the main cafe. Enjolras swallows when he watches the action but lifts his eyes to Grantaire’s and galvanizes himself. Finally awake to their predicament, he takes the lead again, Grantaire all to happy to finally follow again, limping behind.

 

They get onto the road and see that Combeferre has taken the car that Enjolras drove here, leaving only the car that presumably carried Claquesous and the other. Grantaire reaches for the passenger door handle but almost cries out when he moves his shoulder too much. Enjolras opens the door for him and helps him into his seat, before running around the front of the car, making sure they aren’t being watched and getting into the driver’s seat, starting he car and leaving the café for the last time behind them in a screech of tyres.

 

Grantaire in the seat next to him is beginning to look very green, the pain setting in fast – the man has closed his eyes and is trying to breathe slowly, through Enjolras can see every time his breath hitches due to a number of likely broken ribs. Enjolras wants to reach out for him and comfort him but known he can’t – he has to focus on the road. They have to get to the others.

 

 

****

 

 

He is relieved when he reaches their emergency point that everyone is there.  Everyone except Jehan.  Combeferre is rubbing at his eyes, sitting down next to a sobbing Courfeyrac who has his face in his hands and his knees tucked under his chin. Eponine is holding her arms around herself, having changed her clothes, watching them - Gavroche is there too his his arms around his waist.  Her face is blotchy and her eyes red.  Everyone but Courfeyrac looks at up them as they get out of the car. Feuilly gasps when he sees the shape Grantaire is in, but he doesn’t let anyone fret over him as he makes a beeline for Eponine and pulls her and Gavroche into a hug. Enjolras watches him go and then joins Combeferre and Courfeyrac, sitting on Courf’s other side and putting an arm around him.  Courfeyrac leans into his touch raising his head enough to put his forehead on Enjolras’s shoulder.

 

Enjolras allows them five minutes of this; five minutes for himself and Grantaire to breathe, then stands up and declares to the group, ‘We need to get out of Paris.’

 

There are a couple of noises of agreement, the others just nod.

 

Grantaire releases Eponine, ‘And how are we going to do that?’

 

Enjolras looks at him and simply says, ‘With your help.  We need to contact The Lark.’

 

‘Why my help?’ Grantaire asks, his chest tightening a little.

 

‘Because you are now the only one here who knows all the radio contacts and lines,’ Enjolras replies after a moment, sparing a glance for Courfeyrac who has put his head back down on his knees.

 

It hits Grantaire that they have really lost Jean Prouvaire.  He watched them carry him away as Claquesous and the other man came at him and was powerless to stop it.  Guilt washes over him and he can only nod in reply.  ‘Let’s get it done then.’

 

Twenty minutes later Grantaire has established a line, using the spare radios that Combeferre and Enjolras had stored for their emergency pack.  Among them they have three cars, and Bossuet and Eponine start packing their things as Enjolras and Grantaire stand over the radio.

 

A voice says, ‘What’s the phrase?’

 

‘Martyrs into saints,’ Enjolras replies

 

‘One moment,’ and the line goes dead, only white noise remaining.

 

‘I take it you know who I am then,’ a woman’s voice starts, making Enjolras smile a little.

 

‘I do, mademoiselle, and I hope that you have hear of us also – we are Les Amis,’ Enjolras says to her. Grantaire hears a small gasp from the woman he assumes is The Lark – the woman that he read so much about during training; the woman who was going to get them out alive.

 

‘And why do you need my help…’ she pauses, thinking for a moment, before continuing her question, ‘I take it this would be… Enjolras?’

 

‘That is I.’

 

‘It’s a pleasure. But back to point, how can I assist?’

 

‘We need safe passage. Out of Paris.  Tonight.’

 

There is silence for a minute and Grantaire starts to sweat. 

_Maybe it’s not possible, our notice is surely too short. She won’t be able to get us out._

However the reply does come after a bit of movement that Grantaire and Enjolras can hear on the other side of the line, ‘It can be arranged.’

 

‘Time and place?’ Enjolras says, the first real smile finally lighting up his face.  Finally, a true victory.

 

The Lark tells them where to go and who to meet and Enjolras says a simple thank-you to which The Lark replies, ‘I wait for our meeting,’ cutting the line there.

 

With the cars packed Combeferre drives one, with Eponine holding his hand form the passenger seat, and Courfeyrac in the back; Feuilly drives another, with Gavroche next to him, watching Paris fly by out the window, already missing its familiar streets and sites; and Grantaire and Enjolras get into the back of the car driven by Bossuet, both men too exhausted by their night to drive anymore themselves.

 

Grantaire tries to get himself comfortable but fails miserably, no comfort to be found with so many bruises and cuts riddling his body.  Enjolras looks at him worriedly, which makes Grantaire squirm even more under his gaze. He sees Enjolras try to move as far away as possible, ‘I don’t want to hurt you accidently,’ he states as his reason. Grantaire smiles weakly though realises that the gesture makes the cut on his cheek bleed again. ‘Shit,’ he says, ripping off a part of his shirt to cover the blood.

 

‘No, don’t use that!’ Enjolras exclaims, putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief, ‘Here,’ he continues as he dabs it gently on Grantaire’s cheek until Grantaire winces, ‘Sorry,’ he says jumping back and simply passing the rag to Grantaire who gratefully accepts.

 

What he doesn’t say is how much he wants Enjolras to move back into his space, even for a moment. For the chance to smell his hair and feel his skin again.

 

Grantaire falls asleep before too long hearing Enjolras whisper before he completely dozes off, ‘When we get to The Lark the first thing we are going to do is get you checked out, I promise, R,’ as he sweeps a small piece of hair off Grantaire’s face. Grantaire then went out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is how im going to play this - the next part is pretty much going to be written in full before i post any of it so you guys don't have to put up with my rubbish updating
> 
> you are all absolutely wonderful for reading this, especially if you have put up with it from the start (im so sorry)
> 
> so until next time (which is hopefully very very soon) my darlings <3

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, thoughts and suggestions are like unicorns and I would love to hear from you, you are all lovely and wonderful people <3
> 
> Thank-you so much for even considering reading my work - hugs and stuff for you all! I finally finished that last chapter and felt that it was a good place to stop for a while - Part 2 coming soon!
> 
> I have so many ideas for this running around in my head so I do so hope you stick along with me for the ride - I can almost FEEL the boys and girls of the barricade running around in this epoch
> 
> Also, I'm on Tumblr - so please come over and say hi! I get so very bored at Uni; I'm open to prompts, ideas and just a chat really... Seriously. I get REALLY bored.
> 
> putthatbottledowngrantaire.tumblr.com or my Les Mis blog: supervirginenjolras.tumblr.com


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